


We’re Butter Off Together

by whichstiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bed & Breakfast, Butter sculptures, Case Fic, Dean/Cas Tropefest 2017, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, M/M, Magic, Sharing a Bed, State Fair, Tropefest Author Shoutouts, True Love's Kiss, Wingfic, Wisconsin state fair, You Butter Believe It, deancastropefest, magical curses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-22 09:22:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11964459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichstiel/pseuds/whichstiel
Summary: Set immediately after the Season Five episode “The End” this canon-divergent story begins with Dean and Sam heading to the Wisconsin State Fair to check out a butter sculpture of an angel that sounds awfully similar to Castiel. Sure enough, when they arrive the incomplete sculpture looks a lot like Cas - enough so that the Winchesters call in the angel himself to help investigate it. Castiel, upon arrival, is mistaken as Dean’s partner - as in “life partner” - and they’re forced to share a room at a local B&B during the investigation. When Cas falls prey to the dark powers at work, Dean must confront his feelings in order to save Castiel.





	1. A Fair to Remember

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [2017 Dean/Cas Tropefest](http://deancastropefest.tumblr.com/). This story wouldn't have happened were it not for the fabulous [zaphodsgirl's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaphodsgirl/works) prodding and encouragement, some butterchurn porn jokes, and the influence of the fabulous Tropefest midwinter crew! Blame for the puns...falls to me. Sorry...
> 
> Huge thanks to [Shannon-Kind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shannon_Kind/pseuds/Shannon-Kind/works) for beta reading this little beasty.
> 
> And, GUYS. Standing ovation for [cacodaemonia's art](http://cacodaemonia.tumblr.com/post/165064875045/these-are-illustrations-for-whichstiel-s-deancas). I am DEAD, they're so beautiful. Head over to her tumblr and heap on the praises.

It was a bright, golden morning in the middle of July when Annie Fields’s life was ruined for the second time. Blissfully unaware of this fact, she poured coffee into a mug, scooped in a teaspoon of sugar, and then stirred it dreamily as she wandered towards the front door to sit on the porch and enjoy the sunrise.

With her wife and children asleep the house was quiet. Serene. She ambled, loose-limbed, into the entryway. Through the windows she could see that the rising sun had already gilded the treetops in rose gold and she smiled, content to have this beautiful morning to herself. Annie swung open her front door, fixated on settling into her bright red rocker with her coffee, when her toe jammed into something small and solid on the concrete stoop. It thumped over and she jumped in surprise, spilling hot coffee over the lip of her mug onto her hand. Annie hissed in pain, shaking coffee from her wrist, and stepped back to look down. “What in the world?” she said. Sitting squarely in the middle of her front porch was a small rectangular package wrapped in brown paper with twine tied in a neat bow around it. She dropped into a crouch and placed her coffee cup on the ground, then reached for the package.

The parcel was cool to the touch, moisture condensing on the surface in the warming morning air. At first curious, she turned it over in her hands and her heart began to thump. “Please,” she breathed, closing her eyes momentarily as though in prayer. “Please don’t let this be…” Annie pinched her fingers on the end of the rough bow and slowly pulled it apart, the twine falling away. She turned the package over and slipped her finger into the loose waxed paper and, hand trembling, nudged the wrapping aside.

Annie dropped the contents as though it burned her and she stifled a wail as a pound of butter tumbled awkwardly from the paper to thud dully against the ground, butter smearing onto the concrete where it fell. Something white fluttered off of the butter and landed face down on the porch. She stayed frozen in a crouch for several minutes, staring alternately between the opened package and the surrounding houses on their quiet street. There was nobody out this early. There was nobody who could have dropped off this package innocently. She gulped, keenly aware of her sleeping family in the house behind her, and reached for the slip of paper. Annie flipped it over.

The other side of the paper held a picture of a young, attractive man wearing a leather apron and nothing else. He stood over a butter churn and appeared to pump the handle with a leer. Magazine cut-out letters read:

FOUND YOU. BIGGERSONS 10 PM TONIGHT. DON’T TRY TO RUN.

A single tear rolled down Annie’s face as she dropped the note to the ground with trembling fingers. Then she collapsed onto the porch and shook apart in the brightening day.

* * *

The railroad bridge wrapped around the quiet gravel access road like it was custom built to shield the sleek black Impala and Sam’s purloined Continental. Sam stood in front of his car awkwardly, the engine ticking as it cooled, the smell of burnt oil swelling in the still air. He gripped the demon blade in one fist and stared at Dean with a look that was both hopeful and afraid. Dean hated it. He hated that glimpse of the future Zachariah had given him, one in which Lucifer rode around the country wearing Sam like a favored jacket and humanity withered. He hated the crushing uncertainty, wondering if any choices he made were right, or safe. He hated the way Sam looked at him now - as though he had all the answers. Dean shifted his weight from foot to foot then crossed his arms and cleared his throat. The expanse of unsaid things yawned like an ocean between them. “Your car’s a piece of shit,” he said finally.

Sam laughed and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, okay. I didn’t exactly have a ton of options at the time.”

Dean wrinkled his nose in faux horror. “Man, she woulda broken down in a week. I swear to god, Sam. Have some self-respect.” He gestured towards the car. “Get your shit. We got a case.”

Sam stowed the demon blade in his belt, his face clearing with relief. He opened the trunk of his car and dug out his duffel bag and a worn shotgun, then carried them over to the Impala. While Dean settled behind the wheel, Sam tossed his possessions into the Impala’s trunk, slammed it shut, and slipped into the passenger seat. He raised curious brows at Dean. “You got a case? Already?”

Dean shifted forward and dug into his back pocket, pulling out a sheet of paper he had folded into a neat, tight square. He unfolded it, made a brief effort to smooth out the creases worn soft by the constant press of his fingers, and then handed it to Sam.

Sam pulled the paper taut, his lips pressing into a puzzled frown as he skimmed the article.

> **_Renowned Butter Sculptor Churns out New Work_ **
> 
> _ Annie Fields, sculptor of the famous  _ Rose Garden in Bloom _ and  _ Woman with Cats _ , has announced her triumphant return to the butter sculpting sphere. At the Wisconsin State Fair’s famous butter sculpting world competition, Fields, along with competitors from all over the world, will be competing for the coveted Curd Crown. _
> 
> _ Fields says this of her return, “I couldn't stay away from butter sculpting. It’s life changing.” Her current creation is shaping up to be her most immense yet. Renown for her ability to sculpt full scale people and animals in perfect detail, Fields looks to be tackling another figure project for her competition piece. At the time of this report the creation is still rough, but it appears to be an angel clad in a long, flowing coat with vast wings of gravity-defying butter. Currently, Fields’s latest fantastical work is being hailed the front runner for the Crown. Fair attendees and butter sculpture connoisseurs can watch Fields work on her competition piece between 8 a.m. and noon and catch all the competition works in progress during regular Fair hours. _

“An angel wearing a long coat,” Sam said slowly. “That’s not a…”

“Normal look for your typical cupids-and-harps biblical angel? Nope, it sure ain’t.” Dean took the article back, folding it and shoving it back into his pocket. “I, uh, found it when I was lookin’ up apocalypse stuff,” he said, not about to tell Sam how he’d actually found it, which was by searching the internet for  _ angel fetish what to do.  _ He’d discovered the butter sculpture link in a very explicit online forum. “Anyway, I figure you and I head out there, check it out. If it looks anything like the angels on our radar, then we’ll maybe let Cas know and you and I can sniff around for demons or angels or whatever.” He laid his hand on the sun-warmed steering wheel and tapped his fingers restlessly. “Cas is out looking for the Colt. I don’t want to pull him away from that if it turns out to be nothing.”

Sam wrinkled his nose. “Cas is looking for the Colt? Why?”

_ Because in the future I use it to try to kill Lucifer and you. _ “Uh. You know. Might be helpful in dealing with Lucifer.”

“Wow. I thought that was just a line you were selling Bobby.”

Dean shrugged. “Figure we need all the help we can get.”

“Okay.”

Sam seemed to accept his explanation immediately and Dean relaxed a little. He knew that he had to talk to Sam about what Zachariah had shown him, but the words backed up inside of him like a sour lump he couldn’t swallow past. “Anyway, this is probably nothing,” Dean shrugged nonchalantly. “Just a milk run.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, probably. What’s the plan?”

Dean turned the key and the Impala growled to life. “First we gotta stop at a copy shop. How do you feel about being a USDA inspector?”

* * *

They arrived at the Fairgrounds late the next day and Dean steered the Impala immediately towards the back lot where the refrigerated building sat. The crowds were thin; Dean supposed the end of a weekday had to be slow for the fair. That was perfect for them. Fewer people meant less interference or chance of being overheard. He brushed at his suit collar, felt for the new USDA identification and his gun, then stepped outside. The summer sun had baked into the earth and though the air had cooled, Dean could feel heat radiating up from the pavement. He ran a finger around his collar, grimacing, then strode towards the entrance with Sam in his wake.

The cold house turned out to be a vast warehouse-like building with a maze of dairy-related exhibits near the entrance. Dean and Sam wound their way past photo displays of past winners, wax models of Dairyland Queens with frozen waves and smiles, and a thick double doorway rather ominously labeled  _ Vault of Cheese _ . At the far end of the warehouse, suspended from the ceiling, they saw a sign that read  _ Butter Sculptures: Battle for the Curd Crown _ . The sign hung over another set of opaque double doors that a fussily dressed, squat woman was busily locking. “Excuse me, ma'am?” Dean said, surreptitiously checking his watch. “Closing early today?” He'd timed it so they would arrive just before closing, scope out the exhibit in relative peace, and get a glimpse of any security in case they needed to come back after close.  _ The best laid plans... _

The woman turned around and smiled a little sharply. “Sorry, we are closing a bit early. We've got to do a little repair work on the coolant system. Didn’t you see the signs?”

Sam pulled out his ID and flashed it at her. “Ma'am, I'm Batali and this is my partner Garten. USDA. We heard about the problems you were having and came by to do an inspection. Make sure that everything’s...up to code,” he finished lamely. The woman pursed her lips but leaned in to inspect his ID.

Dean pulled out his identification as well and waved it towards her nose casually before slipping it back into his inner jacket pocket. “We’re here to supervise your repairs. And you just let us know if good ol’ Uncle Sam can help you fine folks out.” He gestured broadly at the signage on the doors and winked. “After all, this competition is internationally important. The government has a vested interest in making sure everything runs smoothly.”

The woman’s sour milk expression relaxed into a relieved smile. “Oh, thank god. I got our local building inspector down here, of course. But I’ve never had to work with this contractor before and Steve’s swamped with city work right now. It’d be a dream if you could make sure everything’s in top shape.” She held out her hand to each of them, and shook vigorously. “My name’s Rita Dalloway and I’m the dairy exhibit manager. And of course, with judges arriving in just a few days absolutely everything is going wrong!” She leaned down and unlocked the doors, opening them wide to reveal the exhibit hall beyond.

Dean’s jaw dropped. The open doors perfectly framed a massive butter sculpture of a scroll sleigh filled with jaunty square packages, detailed stripes and polka dots carved into the sides like wrapping paper. Tall plexiglass walls and a thick red velvet cordone surrounded the sculpture. Large yellow blocks leaned against one of the glass sides and a small worktable and chair, smeared with chunky streaks of butter, occupied one corner near the rear of the sleigh. Seven similarly situated glass enclosures filled the vault-like back room like soldiers in a row, fenced off with red velvet rope. 

“Wow,” Sam said, glancing up and down the room. “This is amazing.”

Rita beamed. “Isn’t it? We’ve waited five years to host this event again after California tried to steal the world crown. But this year...oh, this year we’re putting Wisconsin back on the global butter map!”

_ Global butter map?  _ “That’s...that’s great,” Dean managed to say without laughing and they followed her inside past several of the butter sculptures. He looked around for anything that looked like an angel but when none of the sculptures they passed fit the description he switched his attention to Rita. 

She had been chattering at an impressive pace about butter sculpture history since they’d entered the exhibit hall. Now she pointed towards an open door, wires snaking out from it, and said, “Technician’s in there. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a Dairy King having a meltdown on the other side of the fairgrounds. Will you be alright here?”

Dean nodded, every inch the affable Federal employee, and waved as she took her leave. Once Rita bustled out through the double doors Dean swiveled on his heel away from the utility closet where they could hear the technician swearing quietly from within its depths. Once they were out of earshot Dean said, “Okay. The sooner we find that angel statue, the sooner we can hit the road for a real case.”

Sam hurried after him. “You think this is a washout?”

“I don’t know, man.” Dean gestured around at the statues rising up from their glass cases. They passed perfectly sculpted renditions of people, cars, and buildings. “Do these feel dangerous to you? ‘Cause I’m really not getting any kind of apocalyptic vibe from the Den of Dairy here.” He pulled out an EMF reader from his pocket and switched it on, waving it in front of a perfectly scaled Godzilla climbing the Empire State Building. “No EMF. No sulfur. No dicks in gray suits. No body count. It just feels...off.” 

Dean rubbed his fingers idly across the quiet meter as they paced down towards the other end of the room. At the end of the row of sculptures, they finally found the angel. They stared for several seconds before Sam softly muttered, “Shit.”

“You gotta be kidding me,” Dean said. The sculpture was enormous with smooth, yellow, creamy butter towering over the glass walls of the exhibit enclosure. It was unmistakably a depiction of an angel. The base of the sculpture was a figure of a human standing with one leg forward and arms splayed out like it was charging forward in battle. It wore a suit, the details carefully carved even down to a slim belt and buckle. A tie cascaded down the sculpture’s chest, twisting backwards as though the angel strode into a strong wind and had paused just long enough for his image to be captured, mid-charge. A detailed, double breasted trench coat billowed from the sculpture’s broad shoulders, and sprouting from its back were massive half folded wings with feathers that seemed to flow sinuously down to the floor. The face was unfinished with rough angles in place of features, and framed by short cropped hair. The artist had carved tiny curls into the hair, lending it a mussed look. 

“Well, fuck,” Dean said. “That’s Cas. I’d recognize those wings anywhere.”

“Yeah.” Sam’s jaw hung open a little as he stared at the sculpture and then he snapped his mouth shut and looked at Dean. “The wings?” he said in a tone of sudden amusement. “You recognize the wings out of everything there?”

Dean shrugged. “Man, you’ve never seen ‘em. They’re…well, they’re hard to forget.”

Sam shrugged in either acquiescence or agreement and then said, “So we call Cas?”

“Yep.” Dean pulled out his cell phone and punched a number on his speed dial.

Castiel picked up on the second ring. “Dean.” He said in his usual deadpan greeting.

“Hey, Cas. Got a case.”

The line was silent for several seconds before Castiel said, slowly, “Ah. Good? It’s…good to keep busy?”

Dean sighed. “It’s a case for you, Cas. Or, us anyway.”

He could practically hear Castiel’s scowl. “Dean, I’m really quite busy trying to track down the Colt. I’m sure you can handle whatever it is without my aid.”

“Yeah, I’m sure we can,” Dean laughed. “But this directly involves you, man. There’s a, um, sculpture here of you.”

“What?”

“A sculpture. Lookin’ right at it, man. All that’s missing is your face but, dude, it’s you. It’s got your wings and everything.”

The line crackled. Then Castiel said, “That sounds odd.”

“Hell yeah, it’s odd. Why don’t ya flap on over here, check it out. See if it’s anything to worry about.”

“Ah, okay.”

“Listen, we’re at the Wisconsin State Fair in the big building near the back. There’re people around here so find somewhere quiet to zap in, alright? Last thing we need is some kinda panic about dudes appearing outta nowhere.”

“Alright I…I’ll be on my way shortly. I’m, ah, embroiled in something currently.”

“Embroiled in something—?” Dean began, but was met with the soft beep of Castiel ending the call. Dean rolled his eyes, stuffing his phone back into his suit coat. “Typical Cas,” he muttered darkly to Sam’s questioning look. He jammed his hands into his pockets. “He said he’ll be here ‘shortly’ so, I dunno, man. I guess we just stick around as long as we can?”

* * *

Castiel arrived a half hour later with an entourage. Rita Dalloway clutched his arm and appeared to be chatting merrily - and rapidly - as she dragged a very surly angel of the lord behind her. Castiel had a look of quiet desperation around him which morphed into blatant relief when he saw Dean.

Dean jerked his head in acknowledgement, smirking a little at Castiel’s discomfort. “Mister Garten!” Rita said loudly, her voice echoing down the hall. “You didn’t tell me you brought your partner along! This changes everything!” Dean frowned at her, met Castiel’s clueless and slightly panicked eyes, and smiled confusedly at the woman.

“It changes...what, exactly?” He asked hesitantly.

“Oh,” she gushed, drawing even with them. “Now you really must come and stay with me. I insist! Nothing’s more romantic than a weekend at the fair.” She looked at their faces and seemed to notice for the first time their surprise. “Oh, goodness. I’m being confusing. I’ve been talking on and on about it with your adorable partner here but…” She shook her head. “You must stay at my bed and breakfast. We’ve had two last-minute cancellations and, really, it’s the least I could do for your professional expertise this weekend. Complimentary stay, of course. Unless it’s against some kind of ethics rules?” She wrung her hands and looked between them nervously.

From behind Dean, Sam laughed and then said, “No! Not at all. That’s really kind of you. We’d love to take you up on that. Wouldn’t we, Dean?” He jabbed Dean sharply in the back.

Dean who had been mirroring Castiel’s utterly confused expression, mustered up a mumbled, “Yeah sure. Thanks.”

Rita handed Castiel a business card, which he took gingerly between two fingers, and then took her leave. She bustled away and disappeared again through the double doors. The trio stood for a long moment in the quiet exhibit hall. “What the hell just happened?” Dean finally asked.

Sam cleared his throat. “I think she thinks you’re a, uh….couple.” At Dean’s stunned silence he said, joyfully. “Free rooms and breakfast, man. This might just be the best job we’ve ever done.”

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “She thinks you and I are—?”

“She thinks you and Cas are, you know, together. She kept calling him your  _ partner _ , dude.”

Dean wheeled on Cas. “Well, why the hell did you make her think that?”

Castiel looked affronted. “But in this pretext, I am your partner. Aren’t I?”

At Dean’s stunned expression he continued, “FBI. I am your FBI partner. Just like the case with Raphael. Look,” he dug into his inner coat pocket. “I still have my badge.” He pulled it out and it flailed weakly open, upside down.

Dean grabbed it and closed it quickly, looking around to make sure they were still alone. “Cas. Man. We’re USDA here. You didn’t show it to anyone, did you? You’re gonna fuck this up.”

Castiel looked surprised. “No, I didn’t get around to showing her my badge. Apologies, I…” 

“So this Rita chick really thinks we’re together, huh?” Dean looked desperately between Sam’s poorly hidden smirk and Castiel’s lost expression.

“I vote for free rooms and food. Come on, Dean. It’s not like this is the first time we’ve done a fake relationship. And this way it’s better.” Sam said cheerily. “Less creepy when it’s not you and me.”

Dean rolled his eyes and finally groaned in acquiesce. “Fine.  _ Fine _ . For this case you and I, Cas, are a couple.” He thumped Castiel’s shoulder with his fist, eliciting a laugh from Sam. Dean scowled. “Whatever. Can we please focus on the freaky angel statue in front of us?”

They all turned towards the butter sculpture. Castiel stared at it with his face screwed up in a frown, hands in fists at his sides. Dean resisted the sudden urge to nudge Castiel’s foot forward and arrange him into a mirroring pose. Incomplete face excepted, it really bore an uncanny resemblance to Castiel - from the tie straight down to the practical boots carved to a polish against the raised wooden display platform. It was easy to picture wings jutting from Castiel’s back when Castiel faced the slightly larger sculpture. Dean wondered what color they would be if he could actually see them instead of just the shadows of angelic power. “What do you think, Cas? Is it magic? Lucifer shit? Or just someone who saw you, I dunno, in some kinda psychic vision or something?”

“Or maybe she just found a picture of him,” Sam suggested.

“With wings?” Dean scoffed.

Castiel frowned and paced around the enclosure, sniffing delicately at the glass. “This is odd indeed. I detect magic but it’s...muddy.”

“Muddy how?” Sam asked.

“The magical signature. It’s...nothing I’ve come across before. Not on Earth, at least. And certainly not in Heaven.”

“Witches?” Dean asked.

Castiel shook his head. “No. I detect no hex bags. Nothing…demonic or angelic. It just feels…magic. Like static filling the air.”

“Good magic? Bad?”

Castiel stood silently for a few minutes, staring his butter-self down with narrowed eyes. “Can’t tell,” he said finally.

Dean sighed. “Great. That gives us absolutely zero to go on. Well, tell you what? Why don’t you flap on outta here? We’ll give you a call if we turn up anything.”

“Dude,” Sam said. “Don’t you think he should show up at the B&B? Free room for the ‘adorable’ couple?” His expression slipped into a delighted grin.

“And this is why we usually stay in shitty hotel rooms, Sam. Nobody cares what you do as long as the blood stains aren’t too obvious.” Dean looked at Castiel’s wide eyes and shot him a chagrined smile, settling a hand on his shoulder. “You okay stopping by this place with us? Just long enough to check in, or whatever. Then you can flap on outta here.”

Castiel tilted his head at Dean, opened his mouth as though about to speak, and then nodded finally in assent. “Yes. I’ll meet you at the--” He looked down at the card in his hand. “Rose and Thorn Bed and Breakfast.”

Dean rolled his eyes at Sam in protest. “Awesome. Meet you there, man.” Castiel threw his shoulders back and stared at Dean in silence that grew increasingly awkward as Castiel’s mouth began to drag downwards. In moments he was grimacing fully, a dark stormcloud wrapped in a trenchcoat. “Uh, unless you want a ride?” Dean offered, hesitantly.

Castiel looked between Sam and Dean, his eyes widening with something akin to fear. “I can’t fly!”

“Nobody’s around.” Dean waved his hand lackadaisically. “Go wild.”

“No, I mean I. Can’t. Fly.” Castiel’s hands balled into fists and he hunched in on himself, face screwed up in concentration.

“You can’t flap outta here?” Dean asked, surprised. “You flew here though, right?”

Castiel looked panicked now. “Of course I did,” he snapped. “But I appear unable to leave by the same means.”

Sam stared at the butter sculpture in horror and Dean followed his gaze, half expecting the butter wings to flap menacingly. “You’re stuck here,” Sam said. “You think it’s that weird magic?”

“Possibly so.” He pressed a hand carefully to the glass. “Perhaps there’s something to this sculpture we don’t yet understand.”

“No shit,” Dean said. “Okay. Let’s get you the hell away from this thing. You said you flew here? Where’d you fly in?”

Castiel glanced towards the door. “In a field near the front gate.”

“Okay. Well, step one. Let’s head over there. Maybe it’s something localized. You didn’t feel any of this weird mojo until you got near the statue, right?” When Castiel shook his head, Dean ushered the three of them towards the door and out of the dairy exhibit hall. They walked swiftly across the sprawling fairgrounds, Castiel’s tense shoulders easing the farther they got from the butter sculptures. When they finally reached the field Dean asked, “You feel it now?”

Castiel sniffed the air delicately. “No, I can’t detect any of the magic here.”

“Great!” Dean said, “Okay. Try it again.”

Castiel stood with his hands balled into fists. He closed his eyes tightly and pressed his lips into a thin, taut line. Nothing happened. When he finally opened his eyes again, they were dull with resignation. “It appears I’m grounded.”

“Awesome. Looks like you’re hitting the road with us.” Dean jabbed his thumb towards the refrigerated building and turned to lead the way back to the Impala. He tried to keep his facade of irritation up all the way back to the parking lot, but bile burned at the base of his throat. In the future Castiel had also lost the ability to fly sometime during the world’s slide into devastation. Was this how it started? Was this  _ when _ it started? Would Castiel’s powers drop away from him one by one until he became the lost and shredded remnant of an angel he’d seen in Zachariah’s future? If that was the case, Dean didn’t want to contemplate it. Because in the future, Castiel didn’t just lose his powers and his wings. Thanks to Dean, he lost his family and his faith. He lost his  _ life _ for what turned out to be nothing - a failed attempt at stopping Lucifer. 

Future Dean had sent Castiel to his death as casually as though he’d just ordered up take out. This felt like the first sign of the decay that inevitably began when someone - Sam, or Dad, or Castiel - wound up getting tangled in Dean’s poisonous life. He scowled all the way to the car, slamming the door shut behind him after slumping behind the driver’s seat. Castiel settled gingerly in the backseat like an uncertain bird while Sam silently took the front passenger seat. Dean bit back a curse, started the car, and drove them away from the fair.


	2. This Butter Be a Joke

Dinner was a bucket of chicken and a six pack of beer, picked up on the way to the bed and breakfast. They pulled up outside of the Rose & Thorn just as dusk began to leech color from the sky. The bed and breakfast was situated in a stately Victorian home, three stories high and several rooms deep. Neat flower beds full of blooming roses and deep purple annuals ringed a tidy, green lawn. Brightly painted Adirondack chairs nestled into the corners of the garden under the sweeping branches of trees. The place was idyllic, like something out of someone else’s life - someone normal. Dean dropped Sam off at the front entrance to get them checked in and followed the calligraphy parking signs to the back of the lot. His skin itched with discomfort and he steered the Impala to the open spot nearest the exit, parked it, and tapped his fingers on the wheel. “How ‘bout now?” He raised his eyes to the rearview mirror where Castiel sat upright and tense in the backseat.

Castiel’s face took on a constipated air, mouth screwing to one side and eyes narrowing in concentration. Dean felt he could practically see his wings straining at the air, the way his shoulders hunched under the Impala’s thin roof. “Nothing.”

Dean sighed. “Still stuck. Shit.”

“This is very worrying, Dean.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Dean shook his head, then turned around slowly, hooking his arm over the backseat so he could look directly at Castiel. “Anything that grounds you has gotta be some nasty shit, dude. You sure you don’t feel anything?”

Castiel rolled his eyes and his answer emerged a little sharply. “Yes, Dean. Trust me, the moment I sense something I’ll tell you about it.” He glared at Dean, mouth pressing into an aggravated line like he was girding himself up for a fight. But Dean thought he could see fear behind the anger. Dean’s heart hammered in sympathy and he clenched his fist along the top of the seat so he wouldn’t reach out and try to press his hand to Castiel in comfort.

“Okay. Okay. Um.” Dean looked down and then pounded his fist once against the seat back. “I guess we go in. Get our research on. You’ll be on your way in no time.” He grabbed the bucket of chicken and beer from the front seat and handed them to Castiel, then he opened his door and paced around to the trunk to get his and Sam’s duffel bags.

The scent of roses from the bushes lining the driveway curdled Dean’s stomach and he closed his eyes briefly and swayed into the shelter of the raised trunk lid. The last time he had smelled roses, he’d watched himself die under Lucifer’s heel. For the briefest moment he stood in that garden again, his brother looking down at him with soulless eyes and gunfire shaking the world apart around them. He opened his eyes again and forced himself to focus on the bags slumped in one corner of the trunk. Dean sucked a deep breath through his teeth, grabbed their bags, and slammed the trunk closed. When he closed the lid, Castiel stood on the other side of it, his head tilted to one side as he stared at Dean in quiet consideration. “What?” Dean snapped. 

“Are you alright? You seem troubled.” 

“I’m fine,” Dean said shortly, ignoring the concerned crease of Castiel’s brow and the way his expression softened as he asked after Dean’s welfare. Dean turned on his heel and led the way around the side of the house to the front entrance, anxiety bubbling under his skin. Castiel followed quietly after; the only sound was the soft rush of Castiel’s shoes brushing through the grass.

Dean and Castiel walked around to the main door, an imposing piece of cherry wood art with a large stained glass rose worked into the window. The door was slightly ajar and Dean pushed his way inside, Castiel following on his heels. To say it felt awkward standing in the bed and breakfast with a duffel bag bristling with weapons was an understatement. If the beautiful location seemed unsettling on the outside, the inside was utterly ridiculous. The Rose & Thorn bloomed with flowers. Rose wallpaper plastered the hallway, with stands of fresh and fake flowers scattered across seemingly every surface. Tiny porcelain figures with wide black eyes and cartoonish features dotted delicate end tables and wall mounted mantles, scattered so thoroughly throughout the place that Dean was afraid to walk or turn around, for fear that he’d knock one over. 

Sam greeted them when they walked inside, tossing them an elegant metal key with a pink silk ribbon tied onto the end of it. He seemed perfectly at ease, chatting with Rita Dalloway as though he regularly spent time in beautiful, luxurious hotels instead of crap hovels or the cramped backseat of a car. Rita’s face blossomed into a grin when Dean and Castiel arrived and she threw herself at them, arms outstretched in greeting. She captured one of Dean’s hands and one of Castiel’s and pumped them up and down in an exuberant three-way handshake. “Oh, I’m so glad you decided to stay. It’s awfully nice to have a full house and you boys can fill me in on how everything’s looking at exhibit hall,” she gushed. She looked at the bucket of chicken Castiel cradled in the crook of his arm. “You can eat in the dining room. I’ll set out some plates for you. Breakfast starts at 7 a.m. and goes until 10. It’ll be eggs, pancakes, and my muffin of the day. But if you want something else, you just let me know, alright? Any food allergies I should know about?”

Dean looked desperately at Sam, deeply uncomfortable with the attention. Sam smiled graciously. “That all sounds great, ma’am. No food allergies. We can’t thank you enough for putting us up tonight.” He shrugged at Dean. “Hopefully we’ll wrap up our inspection tomorrow and be outta your hair.”

Rita finally released Dean and Castiel and clasped her hands to her chest. “Oh, you boys are sweet.” She gestured towards the beer and bucket of chicken in Castiel’s arms. Castiel reluctantly released his charge to her and she said, “I’ll just set this in the dining room for you. Why don’t you head on up and get settled? I’ve already given Mister Batali a quick tour. Maybe he could show you around as well?” She looked hopefully at Sam who nodded at her, and grinned. Rita blushed and fluttered off into the depths of the house, bucket of chicken cradled at her side and beer rattling with every step.

Dean had planned to research in one of their rooms while they ate, but instead he followed Sam up the creaking, narrow stairway. “I’ve already given Mister Batali a tour,” he mumbled in high pitched mockery. “Jesus, Sam, this place is killing me already. Never again, alright?” The hallway at the top of the stairs was lined with closed doors featuring little wooden embroidery hoops that each held a gorgeous, flower-bedecked numeral marking the room number. Little sprigs of dried miniature roses accented each frame. Two doors towards the back of the house stood open and Sam headed for them, pausing in one doorway. The room beyond Sam’s shoulders boasted a nautical theme with a wide anchor-bedecked bed and plush baby blue carpet. Sam tossed his chin across the hallway to the opposite room. “You guys are in there, okay?”

Dean stopped short. “Uh. What?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Dude. She thinks you guys are a couple. You gotta stay together.” He looked back at Castiel, standing awkwardly in the hallway as though unused to the confining nature of buildings. “He can’t fly out anywhere. Where’s he gonna stay? The back seat of the car?”

Dean gaped at him. “I don’t…” The truth was, he figured that he would be staying with Sam. They could share a bed or if Sam started to kick, he would move to sleep on that lovely, plush carpet instead. He’d slept in far worse places than a well-kept bed and breakfast floor. He glanced at Castiel who looked back at him stoically, and a little quizzically, his head tilted to one side. Dean sighed. “Guess we’re bunk mates?”

If anything, Castiel’s head tilt grew more pronounced. “I don’t sleep,” he said.

“Yeah. Great. Okay.” Dean shook his head and strode into the bedroom, stopping just beside the bed. He looked around and then groaned. “Oh, come on,” he muttered. While porcelain figures littered the downstairs floor, the upstairs had appeared to be refreshingly sparse. However, once in the rooms it was worse. Way worse. The wallpaper in this room was the same tangled red rose pattern as the downstairs hallway. Dean could overlook that. He’d stayed in his share of garishly decorated hotel rooms, after all. What was impossible to overlook were the figurines.

A continuous shelf ringed the room, dropped a few feet down from the ceiling so the figurines on it displayed near eye level. While the delicate statuettes downstairs had been engaged in a number of occupations, the ones in this room appeared to be a focused collection. The shelves were lined with tiny porcelain cherubs painted in delicate hues of pink and blue with soft gray wings spread wide and hands clasped together in supplication. Dean stared around the room in horror and at least fifty sets of deep, black porcelain eyes stared back at him. He whirled towards Castiel. “No friggin’ way.” He stormed out of the room, intent on trading with Sam. Sam’s door was closed and Dean could hear his voice already downstairs again, talking to Rita. “Damn, he’s fast. Son of a bitch.” 

Dean hesitated for a moment in the hallway. He could always jimmy Sam’s lock and trade bags between the rooms, but it suddenly seemed - with Castiel lingering nearby - like a juvenile and petty move. His shoulders drooped in defeat and he returned to the cherub-bedecked room, dropped his bag, and led the way downstairs to eat.

* * *

Dinner was an oddly formal affair. The dining room stood open to an expansive seating area overlooking the firefly-flecked backyard. A handful of couples lounged in the late evening listening to the soulful sound of Ella Fitzgerald crooning from a record player set on a high cabinet. With so many innocent ears close by, they couldn’t talk about details of the case. Dean and Sam kept a rotating supply of chicken and bones on Castiel’s plate, Dean dutifully drinking both his beer and Castiel’s. They ate in near silence on china plates so delicate Dean kept his pushed several inches back from the edge, for fear that he’d accidentally knock it to the ground and shatter it. 

By the time they arrived back upstairs Dean was vibrating with tension. Sam grabbed his laptop from his room and carried it across the hall into Dean and Castiel’s room. Dean closed the door very gently after Sam and then turned to the room at large. “This is why we don’t stay in nice places, Sam,” he hissed.

“What?” Sam laughed a little, though his smile fell once he got a good look at Dean’s stormcloud expression.

Dean gestured towards the door, and then to the assembly of porcelain angels. “I swear to god, Sam. This is the kinda place sanity goes to die. And we’ve gotta eat in a friggin’ dining room? We can’t talk about the case? Come on, man.”

Sam raised his brow and settled into an overstuffed armchair positioned near the window. He propped his feet up on a bright red footstool the exact hue of the roses on the wallpaper. “I don’t know what you’re complaining about. This is awesome. Did you know she serves egg white omelets for breakfast? Egg white omelets, Dean.” 

Dean made a face at Sam which went unrewarded since Sam was already bent over his laptop, typing away. He sighed and unzipped his duffel bag with more force than was necessary, and fished out his own laptop. He sat down heavily on the bed and swung his legs up with an audible groan. Oh, god, the mattress was so soft.  _ It’s like Heaven under my butt _ , he thought, and tried to fix his scowl to his face with greater resolve. If he wasn’t staring at the garish angel collection or the rose-vomited wallpaper, it was actually kind of nice in here. He opened his computer and started it up. As it booted, his gaze settled on Castiel who still stood awkwardly near the door. “Well,” he said grudgingly. “Since you’re stuck here, make yourself comfortable, I guess.”

Castiel tilted his head and looked around the little room with an utterly lost expression on his face. Dean huffed a laugh. “Okay. I guess you ain’t exactly used to down time, are you?” Setting his computer to the side, Dean slid off the bed. He pulled out  _ A Storm of Swords _ from his duffel bag and thrust it at Castiel. “Knock yourself out, man.” He thumped back onto the bed but Castiel remained rooted to the spot, book in hand. Dean sighed as he realized that there was no other seating in the room. Sam sat in the only chair. Dean patted the side of the wide bed. “Just...chill out and read. Nothing you can do now. We’re just gonna do a little research online about your stalker butter artist, okay?”

Castiel looked at the computer with distaste and rounded the bed before sitting gingerly on the side opposite of Dean. He studied Dean’s repose for a moment and then swung his own legs up onto the mattress, scooting back against the headboard. Once he settled, Castiel shot a shy grin towards Dean who was struck, suddenly, with a vision of the future Castiel. That Castiel had been freer with his smiles. Hell, he’d grinned at Dean more than once, each smile like a sucker punch to the gut. 

In Zachariah’s future, Castiel lived in a large cabin with a wide bed, like this one. Rock posters were tacked up on the walls and a battered leather jacket, so unlike Castiel’s typical attire, had been slung over a chair in the corner. He’d acted like he had expected Dean to be in his cabin. Like it was  _ theirs _ . Dean abruptly looked away from Castiel’s smile and focused on staring at the computer, clicking aimlessly as he tried to marshal his thoughts. He and Castiel had shared a bed in the future, of that much he was certain. Seeing that had been a light switch moment for Dean. One moment Castiel was just his very own surly angel of the Lord and friend. The next moment he and Castiel -  _ they _ \- had become one possible future. Wrecked and broken as they had appeared to be in the midst of the Croatoan devastation, Dean still found himself fighting a tight curl of desire at the mere thought of Castiel falling so far as to be entangled in any kind of relationship, much less one with him. It was like Dean had kept the thought locked up in the back of his mind with a sign nailed across it saying,  _ Never gonna happen _ . But then he saw that bed, and Castiel in loose jeans arching his back in a perfect, long stretch and-- Well, now the sign lay in tatters on the floor and Dean itched to open that door and taste those lips and feel Castiel’s arching spine with his own two hands.

Dean shook his head and took an anxious breath, fighting the urge to shout at Sam and Castiel to save themselves, for god’s sake, and disappear out the door into the wilds of the apocalypse doomed Earth. _ It was one probable future _ , Castiel had said. Maybe if Dean kept his distance, Castiel would never get sucked into the Dean Winchester meat grinder. The fact that sitting here under the sunshine of Castiel’s smile turned his stomach into a goddamn cloud of butterflies helped absolutely nothing.

After several minutes of quiet typing while Dean tried to lash his feelings to a brick and toss them into the river Lethe, Sam cleared his throat. “So get this,” Sam said, tapping his laptop thoughtfully. “Annie Fields used to be a big name in the butter sculpting world. But she dropped off the map about five years ago. This is her first competition since she apparently retired. She’s known for her highly realistic sculptures.”

Dean grunted. They’d gleaned as much from the article he’d found online. “Got a picture of her,” Dean said, swiveling his computer towards Castiel. “You recognize her? You think she saw you somewhere?”

Castiel frowned and shook his head slowly at the driver’s license photo Dean displayed. “I don’t think I’ve seen her before, no. And you’re one of only two humans who have, ah, seen my wings.” Castiel frowned and leaned in over Dean’s shoulder, peering at the screen. He poked at the keyboard. “How do you? How do I move this page?”

“You scroll, man.” Dean ran his fingers down the track pad and when Castiel failed to imitate him, he took his hand, positioned his fingertips, and dragged them slowly down. Castiel’s fingers were warm and lightly calloused. Dean felt his hand try to melt into Castiel’s and he ripped it away, then thrust his laptop into Castiel’s lap before swinging his legs off the bed. He stood and stretched as though that was his aim all along, and not just a ploy to put some distance between himself and Castiel’s solid presence. Dean had never had a sensual experience over a computer trackpad before, but he supposed there was a first time for everything.  _ God, Cas smells good.  _ He was going to Hell. Again.

Castiel hadn’t seemed to notice anything was amiss. He studied the laptop screen and said, “Her residence history has an odd gap in it. She lived in Maine for a time but ever since she ‘retired’ there’s no address listed.”

“That’s weird,” Sam said. “You sure? There’s usually something. Credit cards or something we can use to track her.” He stood up and settled one knee on the bed beside Castiel so he could page through the public records listing for Annie Fields himself. “Huh. Sure enough,” he said finally. “Even this driver’s license photo is over five years old. It’s like she was in witness protection, or something. Except she apparently didn’t change her name.”

“Okay,” Dean said picking up on of the little cherubs and frowning at its full smile. “This chick doesn’t carve shit for five years, disappears off the face of the earth. In a shady way, apparently. And now she’s back and carving real life angels.”

“And doing so in the shadow of the apocalypse,” Castiel said, pecking at the keys slowly with two fingers.

“So why’s she coming out of the woodwork now?” Dean wondered. “And why carve a sculpture of Cas?” Dean put the cherub back on its high shelf and settled on the bed once more, taking his laptop from Castiel. He bent over it and started to type. People didn’t just disappear. Surely there were traces online, or in newspapers, or bills. 

They were quiet for a while, Dean and Sam tapping away quietly on their computers with Castiel craning his chin over Dean’s shoulder.

“Hold on. Here’s something kind of weird,” Sam said at last. “There was some kind of controversy with the last sculpture she did. Uh,  _ Woman with Cats _ . I guess she carved it in the likeness of someone from her town at the time and that woman went missing not long after. There were some rumors - and here I’m pulling from the ‘Lambstown community forum archives’ which accused her of being, and I quote, a witch.”

“Wow, that’s some harsh neighborhood gossip.” Dean rubbed his palm against his forehead wearily. “You think it’s true? She killed a woman by making a sculpture out of her with some kind of weird butter mojo? Like some kind of dairy filled voodoo doll?”

Sam gulped and glanced at Castiel with worry in his eyes. Dean’s stomach sank to his toes. “Yeah, maybe. I mean, it would be one possible motive for making a sculpture of Cas, you know,  _ now _ , of all times.”

“When we’re ass deep in the apocalypse, you mean?” Dean pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Okay, let’s make that our working theory. But it that’s the case, why the hell is  _ she _ trying to get at Cas? You said you found some photos of some of her other work, right? Maybe we can figure out a pattern.”

“Yeah, I’ll send you the link.”

Dean pulled up the website Sam sent him and recoiled instinctively. Sam had happened upon, of all things, a butter sculpture fan page complete with a pink background, purple text, and little dancing gifs of sticks of butter. The page for Annie Fields had fifteen photos on it of different butter sculptures; about half of them were of people. “Jesus. Alright, these photos are actually pretty clear. I’ll see if I can get these profiles to register against any faces in the missing persons database.”

“And what should I do?” Dean looked over at Castiel who still sat alarmingly close, his head tilted to an adorable ( _ no, stop it _ ) inquisitive degree.

“You just stick around and don’t die, okay?” He patted Castiel’s knee in a bracing manner and instantly snatched his hand back. Castiel grumbled at his side and after some hesitation, cracked open  _ A Storm of Swords _ . Only minutes later, as Dean’s computer chugged through the facial recognition database, Castiel sighed and dropped the book again.

“These sculptures,” Castiel said slowly as though he were still formulating the thought. “In some ways they remind me of the calf.” He met Sam and Dean’s confused frowns and clarified, “The golden calf. It was a symbol of decadence, of course, and turning towards false gods. But it was also connected to sacrifice.”

“You think it’s some kind of worship thing? Like a god thing?” Sam looked intrigued.

“Given the mysterious disappearance of the last object of Annie Field’s sculpture, I’d say it’s a strong possibility,” Castiel said.

“Hmm. Well, sculptures are closely tied to worship.” Sam drummed his fingers on his laptop. “You know, I was just doing some research into ritual worship and resurrection narratives and Mathias’ treatise on the subject—”

“Sorry, you were researching what now?” Dean asked. “And when? I thought you quit the whole hunting thing. This is your first gig back.” To his chagrin, Dean felt something akin to jealousy at the thought of Sam hunting without him, even though he’d been complicit in sending him away.

Sam shrugged uncomfortably. “It seemed…academic. Safe. I mean, I was reading about Sleeping Beauty fairy tales and true love’s kisses. It didn’t exactly scream monster hunting, to me.”

Dean shook his head, aghast. “Wow. Your dorkiness is unbelievably unending,” he said slowly, and grinned. When Sam opened his mouth Dean held up a quick hand. “Dude. I’ll stop you there. If this is more ‘Sleeping Beauty and the resurrection narrative’ I don’t wanna hear it. If it’s about witchy or god-powered butter sculptures, then you can speak.”

By the end of the evening Castiel had raced his way through two thirds of Game of Thrones and Dean had identified five more missing persons who had been carved into butter by Annie Fields. They made plans to track her down the next morning before the exhibit opened. Sam volunteered for the dangerous mission of extracting Annie Fields’ hotel address from Rita, after which he vowed to head straight to bed. Yawning, Sam headed out the door with his laptop under his arm, leaving Dean and Castiel alone.


	3. Fisticuffs Ensue

“I can’t believe she thinks we’re a couple,” Dean grunted, searching in his duffel bag for a clean t-shirt, underwear, and the small leather bag that held his toothbrush and other toiletries. “What a weird day.” He laughed a little wildly. Dean had practically vaulted from the bed as soon as Sam had left; and Castiel, throwing Dean an expression that almost appeared wounded, had stood as well. He now perched on the arm of the wingback chair turning a cherub statue over in his hands.

“I’m…sorry?” Castiel said, squinting at the figurine with palpable distaste. “I wasn’t aware that the term ‘partner’ could hold so many connotations.” He looked so deeply uncomfortable that Dean relented from the tirade he’d been building up to and chuckled instead. His shoulders slumped and he smiled weakly at Castiel, who turned his gaze towards him, eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Nothing, man.” Dean sighed and bundled up his clothing in his arms. “Gonna get washed up so I’ll…uh…yeah.” He slipped into the small adjoined bathroom and closed the door gently behind him. Dean took a quick shower, taking assiduous care to keep his mind blank, or at least, not think about the way Castiel’s hand had felt wrapped in his own. Dean definitely did not think about the warmth of their shoulders brushing, or Castiel’s steady gaze from just a breath away as he’d turned his head to ask Dean a question while they sat side by side. Dean brushed his teeth in the foggy bathroom, then got dressed in his clean clothes and jeans and headed back into the room.

Castiel remained in the corner, and was now standing and holding a different statuette up close to his nose, turning it over in his hand. “Getting some cherub tips there?” Dean asked.

“These wings are improbable,” Castiel scowled and set the statute back on the tall shelf with a dull clink.

“Heh. Yeah and your wings are a lot more probable,” Dean said, settling on the bed.

“My wings are plenty probable.” Castiel tilted his head. “You’ve seen them yourself, Dean.”

“I’ve seen shadows, man.” Dean held up his hands defensively. “Pretty cool show, but I ain’t exactly ever seen you flapping around the treetops.”

For some reason this dug deeper furrows into Castiel’s scowl. “That’s not…that isn’t the point of a seraph’s wings, Dean.”

Dean laughed and began tossing several decorative throw pillows off of the bed, until he had just one thin pillow to lay on. He punched it into a misshapen lump and burrowed his head into it, lacing his fingers across his chest. “Whatever. Listen, I’m beat. We’ll probably be up early tomorrow to get a jump on talking to Fields before the fair opens.” Castiel nodded but remained where he was across the room. “So you can go, or whatever. Get the light on your way out.”

“Go?” Castiel took a deep breath, as though in realization and said, “Oh, I see. Go. I’ll just… I’m sure I…”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Cas. Dude. You’re gonna be bored standing around and staring at me all night.”

“Of course, Dean.” Castiel nodded minutely towards the window. “I could spend some time in the garden. Or perhaps watch over Sam?” He suggested in a hopeful tone.

Dean immediately quashed the stab of jealousy at the thought of Castiel watching over Sam in his sleep.  _ Instead of me _ , his brain thoughtfully supplied. Dean sighed theatrically and, crushing a flutter of excitement brutally down, patted the opposite side of the large bed, shifting so he lay near the edge of the mattress. “Look, you can just— It’s fine if you wanna stay in here. Just…sit on a chair or lay on the bed like a normal person, okay? It creeps me out to have you standing over me like that.” 

Castiel looked surprised and possibly…pleased? He strode to the door and flicked off the light, so the room was illuminated only by moonlight filtering through the gauzy curtains. Castiel slowly walked over towards the bed and sat stiffly on the side of the mattress. Then, when Dean didn’t kick him off he carefully swung his legs onto the bed and laid back, shifting against the pillows. He shuffled for nearly a minute, like a bird wriggling into a feathered nest, before he folded his hands over his chest and turned his head to look at Dean, brows raised in question. “Good,” Dean said with an expansive eye roll. “Great job acting like a person. Just don’t stare at me and we’re cool.”

Castiel immediately turned his head towards the ceiling, and said, “I won’t stare.”

The bed was huge. Dean could flop an arm across and his fingertips wouldn’t skim the sleeve of Castiel’s coat. Still, he questioned the choices he’d made up to this moment and wondered how he would ever get to sleep, hearing Castiel’s even breathing across the sheets. Dean stared at him for a moment, as though testing to see if he would be true to his word. But when several minutes passed and Castiel still gazed stoically up at the stuccoed plaster, Dean finally closed his eyes and shockingly, slid into sleep.

* * *

_ Dean had forgotten how cold Hell could be. Ice spidered across his skin in purple and red fractals as blood and water froze on his knuckles. There was a knife in his hand, carved from an actual leg bone salvaged from the grave of his victim by one of Alastair’s goons. Bone blades demanded a lot of care but they brought a level of agony into the torture that had surprised and delighted even Alastair. “You’re a natural,” Alastair had murmured into his ear. “Keep this up and you’ll be free of the rack for an entire year. Maybe more.” Alastair slid a hand around Dean’s hip and caressed it gently. He curled his other hand around Dean’s fist which held the knife. “Such a good boy,” he whispered and together they brought the knife down. _

_ Flesh tore. Blood flowed like flood waters through deltas of shredded muscle and stark white gristle. Gore covered his fingers, warmed them. At last his hands were warm, plunged deep into the soul on the rack. _

_ The soul on the rack yelled in abstract agony and then suddenly its tone shifted. The soul whimpered. _

_ The whimper was familiar and Dean stopped dissecting the forearm strapped to the table and looked up with a gasp. On the rack, illuminated by the harsh red light of Hell, Sam strained to hold his neck up and met his eye, face twisted in anguish. His lips were sewn shut with cruel, blunt stitches and he moaned through them, eyes begging for mercy. “Sammy?” Dean whispered. “Sammy? What’re you doing here?” The bone knife fell to the floor with the dull sound of bone striking stone. _

_ The dream changed. His nose filled with the scent of roses and springtime mud and he blearily opened his eyes to see a man clad in a gleaming white suit approach. It was him. Oh god, it was  _ him _. Sam. Lucifer. The Colt lay on the ground just out of reach. Knocked out of his hand? Dean willed his fingers to move. Useless. He desperately tried to roll for the weapon but he lay frozen and stiff as the white-clad archangel approached, idly twirling a blood red rose in his fingers. From the building above echoed the  _ rat-a-tat  _ of gunfire and then, horribly, a familiar voice screamed in agony. Bright, angel-blue light shone from the windows and seared his eyes. Somewhere in the building above him, Castiel was dying. _

Dean woke gasping, the desire to vomit or shiver out of his skin nearly overwhelming. His body trembled and it took him the space of several breaths to wake up enough to realize he was no longer in Hell or in that future, dismal rose garden. More than that, he was no longer lying on his pillow, teetering at the edge of the bed. Instead his arms were crossed and pressed in close to his chest, and he lay in the center of the bed held firmly against Castiel. Slowly his eyes focused in the dim room until he could make out the black stripe of tie against Castiel’s white shirt. His cheek was pressed into Castiel’s lapel and as he shifted in his arms, he realized his face was damp.  _ Fuck. _ Whether damp from sweat or tears, Dean didn’t care. Either option was utterly mortifying.

“You were dreaming,” Castiel said quietly, gently shifting his fingers along Dean’s back, catching on his knotted, sweat-damp shirt in a gentle caress.

“Yeah,” Dean jerked his chin in an approximation of a nod. The movement rubbed his cheek against Castiel’s chest. His very firm chest.  _ Christ, is this what he’s been hiding under all these layers?  _ His heart rate picked up its pace for an entirely different reason.

“I’m not staring,” Castiel said, his chin rocking gently against the top of Dean’s head with every word.

“What?” Dean asked, befuddled.  _ I should move away, right? Yes. I should move. _ Dean continued to lay folded in Castiel’s arms.

“You…told me not to stare. I’m not staring,” Castiel said. “My eyes are closed.”

Dean snorted a little, suddenly imagining how they must look right now, lying in bed together with their bodies practically intertwined and Castiel’s eyes screwed tight. It was both an intimate and overly ridiculous image and Dean used the shock of humor as impetus to unfold his arms and press his hands against Castiel’s chest, pushing out of his embrace. He sat up and scrubbed a weary hand over his face, trying to casually swipe the corners of his eyes. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

Castiel still lay on the bed where he gazed serenely up at Dean. “Sorry for what?”

Dean made a vague brushing gesture in the air between them. “You know. Getting in your space.”

Castiel blinked at him slowly. “I don’t mind.” He brought up one hand and pressed it against his tie, staring down at it thoughtfully before meeting Dean’s gaze again. There was something almost reverent in that look and it made Dean scramble backwards, crab-like, towards the edge of the bed. He swung his legs over the side and jabbed one hand at the bathroom. “Gonna…” He left the rest of the sentence behind him and dashed for the safety of the bathroom. When he finally came back out, the room was empty. Castiel was gone.

Castiel stayed away the rest of the night, and Dean failed to get any more sleep. He ended up curled in bed pouring over the records they’d amassed about Annie Fields and her possible victims, trying to find connections between them. He did this until the sun came up and his stomach began to growl. There was a light knock on the door. “Come in,” Dean said hopefully, then tried not to look disappointed as Sam poked his head inside.

“Heading down for breakfast.” Sam peered around with a frown. “Where’s Cas?”

Dean shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant, though his heart sped up in sudden fear. He’d been too chicken-shit to call Cas and ask him to come back, but now it occurred to him that Cas might be missing. All the victims they had tracked down had been declared missing and were now cold cases, presumed dead. The mojo at work here was apparently strong enough to ground an angel. Could it have snatched Castiel out of the blue? He washed up quickly, jammed his gun into his belt, flipped his shirttail over it, and headed downstairs. He could hear Sam’s low laugh coming from the dining room and was met, when he arrived, with the cheery sight of a handful of guests gathered around a table laden with breakfast food. At one end of the table Sam sat with Castiel at his elbow. Sam already had a bowl of fruit and oatmeal in front of him while Castiel sat with a cup of coffee cradled in his hands. Castiel looked up when Dean arrived in the room and threw him an odd half smile. The bags under his eyes seemed more pronounced, leaving an impression of sorrow. Dean lifted the corner of his mouth in return, trying to rein in the sudden rush of wild relief that filled him to see Castiel sitting safely at the table. Then he shoved his hands into his pockets and shuffled around the room to take the empty seat next to Castiel.

“Good morning, Dean,” Castiel said quietly as Dean settled next to him.

“Morning,” Dean mumbled, feeling the tips of his ears heat. He bent his head and focused on filling up his plate from the dishes spread across the table. Several forkfuls of eggs, three pieces of bacon, and two slices of toast helped Dean to regain his equilibrium. 

They made quiet plans to head straight to Fields’ hotel and promised Rita that they would be by to check on the coolant systems at the fairgrounds later that morning. “Hopefully we’ll see her exactly never again,” Dean grumbled as they walked back upstairs after breakfast. “Don’t get me wrong. This place has its perks. But if I get asked about my fabulous gay wedding one more time I’m gonna throw myself off the ferris wheel.”

They grabbed their laptops and the case information they’d managed to amass so far and headed out to the Impala. The morning was sunny, a little muggy, and dew clung to the grass like glitter that scattered as they walked along the cobblestone path to the back parking lot. Dean stretched his arms up over his head and cracked his neck before opening the driver’s side door. He glanced back at Castiel. “How ‘bout now?” he asked.

Castiel shook his head and folded himself into the backseat with a hangdog expression.

* * *

Annie Fields was staying in a small motor inn a mile away from the fairgrounds. It was a ratty establishment, too far off the highway to attract much business and it showed. Paint peeled in long tongue-like strips from the walls and the windows around the clerk’s office were barred. “Huh,” sniffed Sam, looking around as they walked along the uneven sidewalk to Annie’s door. “This is the kinda place you go ‘cause you’re passing through or--”

“Or you got business you want to hide.” Dean slipped a hand to the gun in his waistband and turned to look at Sam. “Ready?”

Sam nodded. “I still think Cas should come in. He’s no safer outside than he is with us.”

Dean glanced towards the back seat of the Impala and met Castiel’s furious gaze. “It’s for his own good, Sam. We don’t know what we’re walkin’ into here. The last thing we want to do is hand her a sacrificial angel on a platter. Now, are we gonna do this, or what?”

Sam rolled his eyes and reached out to rap his knuckles sharply against Fields’ door. The door opened quickly and stopped short, restrained by the chain lock. A small woman peered out at them. “Yes?” she said. “Can I help you?”

Sam flipped out his FBI badge. “Agent Jones, ma’am, and this is my partner, Agent Page.” Dean grinned at her and flipped his own badge.

She narrowed her eyes, looking them up and down. “Didn’t I see you around yesterday evening walking through the dairy exhibit? Rita Dalloway told me you were USDA inspectors for the coolant system. Which I thought was weird at the time.” She wagged her finger at them and began to shut the door. “But now…”

“Well, ma’am we’re awful sorry you saw that,” Dean said sinking into his customary lady-killer drawl while surreptitiously sliding his foot into the doorway. “Truth is we’re undercover and we’d sure appreciate it if you could keep our cover under wraps.”

Annie hesitated for a moment. Sam held his badge closer to her and she squinted at it, then sighed. “Fine,” she said. “Come on in.” Dean slid his foot away and they waited while she unlatched the door and opened it wide for them. She gestured towards the small table near the window and then perched on the edge of the single bed. Sam settled in one of the worn chairs by the table while Dean leaned against the dresser, his legs crossed casually at the ankles.

“Thank you for taking the time to talk with us,” Sam said, elbows resting on his knees. “We’re actually here in Wisconsin to talk to you.” She looked palpably fearful at this and Dean leaned one hand against the dresser where he would have fast access to his gun.

“You want to talk to me?” She glanced between them. “So this has nothing to do with the fair or...or the coolant system. Or anything?”

Sam opened up his laptop, tapped twice to call up an image, and swiveled it around to face Fields. “What can you tell me about Sarah MacGregor?” Sam displayed to her Sarah’s missing person photo up against her likeness in  _ Woman with Cats _ . “We’re following up on some leads in an old missing persons case. When we found out about the fair, we knew where we could talk to you.”

“Um,” Annie’s voice wobbled on the word. She gulped. “I only sort of knew Sarah MacGregor. She lived in my town at the time she went missing so she was in all the papers. I...I heard she was nice, though. She didn’t deserve to disappear.”

Dean rolled his eyes at Sam and mouthed  _ guilty _ . Sam squinted in remonstrance and asked, “If you didn’t know her all that well, what inspired you to sculpt her?”

Annie wiped her hands on her thighs. “You’ve got to understand, I don’t do people. I don’t like to. I don’t want to. But when he said to…” She stopped speaking abruptly and looked at the bedspread. Her shoulders drooped. “Sometimes I just get inspired.”

“Ms. Fields,” Sam pressed, “did someone tell you-- Did someone commission a sculpture of Ms. MacGregor?”

“I--”

“Just answer the question,” Dean said and Annie jumped as though she’d forgotten that Dean stood behind her.

“Yes. Yes, there was a commission. I don’t know  _ who _ , though. Once it was done a shipping company came and hauled it away. It displayed at a few shows and then--” She spread her hands and shrugged.

“And then what?” asked Sam.

“And then I don’t know! Got melted down? Or added to a private collection? Once it’s out of my hands, I don’t keep track.”

“And this figure you’re carving now,” Dean said. “You take a commission for that as well?”

Annie shook her head but looked steadfastly down at the bedspread, tracing a finger along the quilted stitching. “No, there’s no payment for this one.”

While they’d been talking Dean had inched down the length of the dresser, making his way towards a light blue sketchbook stuffed with papers. He picked it up, taking care to not rustle any papers, and held it up briefly for Sam’s benefit before he stuffed it under his coat. He shoved his hands into his pockets to hide the bulk and quirked a brow at Sam. Then Dean said, “Okay. Well, thanks for your time. If you remember anything about any commissions, or maybe some interested buyers, you just let us know, alright?”

Annie nodded and took Sam’s card, then saw them out the door. She shut the door behind them with an enthusiastic click and the chain rattled on the other side.

“Dude,” Sam hissed as they walked away. “I thought we were getting somewhere.”

Dean scoffed. “She’s so scared to talk we would’ve spent an hour there running in circles.” He pulled out the sketchbook. “I got this. Figure we can go through it for leads.” He led the way to the Impala, swung open the door, and settled inside, grinning at Cas. “We’re just gonna do a little paper reconnaissance here and then head back inside to talk to Fields some more. Cool?”

Castiel scowled. “Dean, I could be of use in there. I’ll be able to tell when she’s lying, at the very least.”

“Dude, I do not need you to tell me when someone’s lying. She’s lying straight outta her ass.” He opened the book. “Let’s find out why.”

The sketchbook was crammed with portrait studies and light pencil sketches of portions of Field’s more famous sculptures. They found several cryptic notes folded among the pages. Dean flipped up one of them which had a picture of a buxom maid giggling over a thick pound of butter. The note said:

DEADLINE: WEDNESDAY

“Look at this shit. Cut out letters like a goddamn movie ransom note. If someone’s working with her, or forcing her to carve these people, then they watch way too much TV.” Towards the rear of the sketchbook they found several photographs of Castiel from various angles, a formless backdrop of buildings behind him. These were shoved between pages containing detailed drawings of wings and swirling trenchcoats.

Castiel traced the sketched wings slowly with one fingertip. “These are...surprisingly accurate. And these photos appear to have been taken when I was in New Mexico last year, investigating a lead on Lilith.”

“You think someone’s been following you, Cas? Targeting you?” Sam asked as he flipped through the small collection of ransom-style notes.

“Well, I am an angel. And this is the apocalypse,” Castiel said drily. “It does seem probable.”

“Okay,” Dean said. “I think we got enough here to head in there and talk to her again. There’s no way she can deny any of this. And she obviously spends time on each of these statues, planning ‘em and drawing ‘em. It’s not like they just spring up overnight and she takes credit for them. I say we go in there, confront her with everything we know, and figure out how the hell she’s zapping people outta the world. Cas, you should be in on this too.”

All three piled out of the car and Sam knocked on her door. When she didn’t answer, he started pounding on the door. “FBI, open up!” he shouted. Dean rolled his eyes at Sam and stepped back a few paces, then hurled himself at the door. The motel door locks splintered through the cheap wood on the other side of the wall and Dean stumbled inside, drawing his gun and swiveling around.

The room was empty. Annie had fled. Just visible through the bathroom doorway, a window stood open to the back lot. “Shit,” muttered Dean, and kicked the bed.

* * *

Dean ran back to the Impala while Sam and Castiel raced in opposite directions around the motel, hoping to head off the fleeing Fields. By the time Dean had driven around to the back lot, Sam and Castiel were standing together talking intensely. Castiel looked like he was barely restraining himself from yelling at Sam and his fists were balled at his side. Dean pulled up beside them, suddenly nervous. Castiel looked...smitey...and he whirled as the Impala approached. Dean braced himself for confrontation. 

What Dean got was silence. Sam slid into the front seat while Castiel settled heavily into the back, slamming the door behind him. Dean squinted across the open field backing the motel. It led to thickly overgrown forest on one side and a maze of homes on the other. “Which way do you think she went?”

“If you had let me go in with you,” Castiel bit out, “I would have likely been able to sense her intent to flee and you wouldn’t be wondering that right now. Instead, you insisted upon sidelining me.” He glared at Dean, who had turned in his seat as soon as Castiel began speaking. “I can be useful, you know. I have been here, watching over humanity for...for millennia.”

“Cas,” Sam said in a placating tone. “I’m sorry. We were just trying to keep you safe.”

“Safe? Grounded angel I may be, but I’m still an angel. I can look after myself.”

“Cas,” Dean said, clenching the back rest. “Look--”

“No. Here’s what we’re going to do, and you can join me in it, or walk away now.” Castiel’s jaw tightened and he stared towards the road grimly as though he were contemplating pulling out his blade and charging on foot to the fair. ”We’re going down to those fairgrounds and destroy that sculpture. Human propriety is of far less import than my life. Next, we will locate Annie Fields and bind her until we get a satisfactory answer as to her purpose and role in these disappearances. Need I remind you that any entity after me will likely go after you next? We are all that stand against Lucifer and Michael’s war and we can not afford to let ourselves get distracted.” He glared at Sam. “I was pulled from interrogating a demon about the Colt and gave up on the opportunity to catch others to fly to your aid once again. You  _ owe _ me… You owe me at least the respect you afford each other.”

“Cas,” Dean said, trying to interrupt the diatribe. Fear thrilled through him the moment Castiel began shouting. He’d known it would only be a matter of time before he fucked up badly enough to make Castiel leave. “Cas!” Castiel snapped his mouth shut and turned his stormcloud expression onto Dean. Dean took a steadying breath, then said, “You’re right. Okay? You’re right. We’ve--” He looked at Sam. “ _ I’ve _ been treating you like a child. But you’re not. You’re a friggin’ angel. You-- And you should be calling the shots here. It’s your life.” He scratched at the sweat pooling on the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, Cas.”

Castiel looked completely surprised but he nodded sharply, as though in punctuation of some unspoken agreement. “Good. Let’s go.”

Dean threw the Impala into drive and they sped the quick mile to the fairgrounds in awkward silence. Dean turned over their exchange as he drove. Every instinct in him screamed to shove away the people he cared about - push them somewhere safe, far from Dean’s typical circle of danger. Hell, the only reason he was hunting with Sam again was because reuniting with his brother was the largest change he’d seen between now and that possible cataclysmic future. What if he was wrong about more than Sam? Maybe he needed to open up and let people in - people he was already so close to - whose fates seemed inextricably bound with his own. He thought about lying entangled with Castiel earlier that morning, their arms drawn together, and Castiel’s shy smile and gentle touch. He’d felt safe and happy, and confused. He’d felt loved. What if there were more walls he was supposed to tear down?

Dean shook his head, trying to focus on the mission ahead.  _ This isn’t the time. _ But something within him howled to address the tension stretching between himself and Castiel. Maybe when the case was wrapped up, he’d dredge up the strength to talk about it before Castiel flew away again.  _ Now there’s a metaphor for you,  _ Dean thought with a bitter twist of his mouth.

The gates were closed when they arrived and Dean drummed his fingers waiting for the attendant to meander over and reach into the ticketing cabin to lever open the gate. Once they were through Dean made a beeline for the back lot and the chilled dairy building. They parked near the entrance, still almost abandoned this early in the morning, and Dean jumped out of the car and rounded to the back, where he threw open the trunk. He rooted around the jumbled weaponry and glanced at Sam who had joined him at the trunk. “What do you think works best for smashing butter sculptures?”

Sam shrugged and craned his neck towards Castiel, who strode angrily towards the building’s entrance. “Shovels, I guess?”

“Shovels.” Dean grabbed the two shovels from the trunk, wincing a little at how conspicuous they were in the quiet lot. Graveyard earth drifted from the shovel blades onto the ground. He tossed one shovel to Sam and they trailed Castiel to the entrance of the building.

Suddenly, the double doors opened and Annie walked out of them. For a moment she froze like a deer, clearly shocked to see them. Then she took off running, Castiel not far behind her. Annie was surprisingly fast, dodging Castiel’s outflung arm easily and racing around the side of the building towards the rest of the fair. “Shit!” Dean tossed his shovel to the ground and sprinted off in hot pursuit. 

Beyond the few warehouse buildings the fair opened up into a thick maze of colorful carnival booths and rides. Annie had run straight for the thick nest of game tents and Dean soon found himself following the flapping tail of Castiel’s coat as Castiel stumbled after Annie into a hive of skill games. The booths were arranged in short rows with temporary fencing at the sides, effectively penning fair goers away from the shorn fields beyond. After one wrong turn Dean quickly lost both Castiel and Annie and he snapped his fingers at Sam to split off and head out on his own to cover more ground. Dean ran, the crunch of gravel and his harsh breath immediate in his ears. Pounding footfalls nearby told him he was close to Annie, or perhaps Castiel. He caught a glimpse of Annie disappearing behind a display of hot pink inflated dolphins and yelled, “Stop! I’ll shoot!” 

Annie spared a quick glance behind her, face red with effort, and she zagged across the dusty aisle to duck between a basketball game and something sprawling involving baby pools filled with bright yellow ducks. Dean jumped over a baby pool, shortcutting his way to the gap in the stalls.  _ Damn, she’s fast.  _ Ahead of him, Annie wove through the booths like a champion sprinter.

But the fair was finite in size and Dean could tell from the glimpses he caught of her that she wasn’t doubling back towards her pursuers. At last the tents gave way to field and when Annie stumbled over a clump of dried grass, Dean pulled out his gun and leveled it at her chest. “Don’t move,” he ordered, panting.

Annie turned to Dean slowly. Dust-caked butter streaked her clothes and he could see that her cheeks were wet with tear tracks. “I’m sorry,” she told him brokenly between heaving gasps. “I’m so sorry. I had to do it.”

“And what did you do, exactly?” Dean growled.

Her lips trembled. “I’m sorry for your friend. I’m so sorry.” she said and her face crumpled entirely.

“What?” Dean spared a moment to glance around. Sam was jogging up, his gun drawn. Castiel was nowhere in sight. “Cas?” He called. “Cas!” There was no reply. “Sam, you seen Cas?” Dean asked, returning his attention to Annie.

“Thought he was with you,” Sam panted. And then he groaned as the sickening crack of metal on bone filled the air.

Dean turned around just in time to see Sam fall to the ground next to a suited assailant wielding a metal pipe. He had just drawn breath to call for his brother and then for help, when something narrow and hard struck his temple and he tumbled into a lightless void.


	4. First Kiss, Last Kiss?

Dean struggled to open his eyes. One eyelid felt sticky and he groaned, pretty sure that his face was half covered in blood. He tried to stir into a sitting position, shaking his head and blinking away the static from his vision. Something prevented him from sitting up properly and he slumped for a moment, panting against the pain, until his eyesight cleared enough to look around him. He was chained around the torso to a wide concrete pillar in what looked like an otherwise unremarkable warehouse. A manacle clamped around one ankle and the two ends of chain were looped into a padlock on the cuff. 

Dean squinted at the surroundings. It looked vaguely familiar with the same poured concrete floor and steel beams of the dairy building. He wondered if they were still on the fairgrounds. He groaned, twisted his neck to the side, and saw Sam slumped nearby. Dean heaved a deep sigh of relief. Sam was tied to another pillar by heavy chain that bit cruelly into his upper arms. Tucked almost behind a pillar several feet away, Annie Fields sat with her arms around her legs and her chin resting on top of her knees.

“Fuck,” Dean muttered. “Sam?” Sam didn’t stir but Annie looked around at him. Her eyes were red, cheeks wet with tears. She sniffled loudly and bent her face to wipe her nose against her shoulder.

“You’re okay,” she said, sounding surprised and relieved.

“No thanks to you,” Dean hissed, wincing at the pain that bloomed in his head as he moved his neck. “Where is this place?”

“Um. I think it’s an old field house just off the fairground.” She shook her head miserably. “And before you ask, no, I had nothing to do with you and your friend being taken. I didn’t want you to get hurt. I just wanted to go home.” Her breath hitched. “I didn’t want any of this.”

“Alright. So your friends got us, then. They’re the mooks in suits, right? What the hell do they want with us?”

Annie sniffled again. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

Dean rolled his eyes.  _ Every time. _ “Try me.”

“They’re demons,” she whispered.

Dean sat up straighter. “Demons? As in, black eyes and sulfur?”

“You got it.” She chuckled weakly. “Fucking. Demons. I mean, what even is my life?” She rolled her forehead back onto her knees. “They’ve got my family. My wife. My kids.” She lifted a chain from her side and revealed that it attached to an ankle cuff clamped around her leg. “They’ve got me. In every way.”

“Just what do they have over you?”

“My powers,” she said simply. Annie lifted her head and stared at him. “I’ve was born with the ability to carve...beautiful things. I carved them in butter because, you know, how can butter hurt anything, right? But the family curse always wins.”

Dean sighed and shifted to his hip to try and tease a lockpick from his back pocket. “Okay, you know what? You’re really gonna need to back up about 500 yards for me. You’re saying you’re cursed? How’s that work.”

Annie was quiet for a moment, staring at a spot on the wall opposite her pillar. Then she said, “My family churns out gifted artists like no other family I’ve ever met. We’re all sculptors or painters and only one in every couple of generations might have the curse.”

“What’s the curse do?” Dean asked. He scraped his finger-tips through his pockets for his lockpick but the demons must have emptied them. He cast around for something to use instead and hit on a small nail lying about a foot away in a dusty crack in the floor. He shifted the other way and started to work his body towards the nail, leaning against the chains.

“The curse kills,” she said simply, sending chills down Dean’s spine. “When I was nine,” she continued, “I found out the curse had come to me. My parents let me make art. They encouraged me to sculpt because, like themselves, making art is like a compulsion. But they told me I could never sculpt an animal or a person. They didn’t tell me why, though my grandmother had told me stories about other women in our family with the power to compel people to climb  _ into _ their sculptures - regardless of whether their art was formed from wood or clay or stone. I thought she made them up. I mean, the stories sounded like fairy tales.

“So I carved little things. Cups and flowers and things like that. I entered them in local fairs and sometimes I won ribbons but I never won first prize. That year I decided to hell with what my parents told me to do, I was going to carve my pet rabbit, Mister BunBun.” Annie closed her eyes and shook her head, as though in mournful remembrance. “BunBun disappeared the day I finished the sculpture. I was sad, but we lived out in the country. I just assumed a fox got him and entered the sculpture of him into the fair. It won first prize at our local fair, and then traveled to state and won a ribbon. When I finally brought the sculpture of BunBun back home I was afraid to show my parents what I’d done. They’d always been so adamant about me not carving an animal. So I left the little sculpture outside in the barn. The next morning I found Mister BunBun lying dead in a pool of congealed butter.”

“He was--?” Dean started, heart thumping in his chest, thinking about Castiel.

“Inside the sculpture the whole time. The entire local fair, the travel to the State Fair, my dead rabbit was traveling around encased in butter.” She leveled a sympathetic look at Dean. “I don’t know exactly how they’re called to the butter. I don’t know how they get inside, or why my sculptures always look the same before and after. I never stuck around a finished sculpture long enough to find out.”

Dean shot her a hard look as his finger-tips scrabbled within inches of the nail in the floor. “You killed people with this. You telling me that was an accident? Even after the bunny?”

Her voice broke as she whispered. “I didn’t want to. I don’t know how they found out about me.” Annie scrubbed at her cheeks, damp with fresh tears. “When I was eighteen they came for me.”

“They?”

“Demons. Black eyes. Scary strong.” She sighed. “They threatened my family - my sister - unless I carved this random guy. They gave me pictures. I was scared.”

“And you did it,” Dean guessed.

“Yeah.” Annie’s voice shook. “I did it. I did a sculpture for them almost every year until I was twenty five. Never told a soul that I had the curse. I was too scared. Too ashamed. And then I met Kara and ran away with her.” She shrugged, helplessly. “Anyway, they found me again.” Her mouth turned down and her face crumpled. “I’m so sorry about your friend.”

“What about him? Do you know where he is?” Dean finally grasped the nail and started to work it into the padlock.

“He’s--” Annie started to cry in earnest now and she spoke around sobs. “I’m so sorry. He’s been encased.”

“What?” Dean stared at her in horror.

“They made me finish the sculpture. It’s done. And because the sculpture is done he’s...he’s climbed inside of it. Nobody survives it. The people I’ve killed...” She stared at him with a fiery expression. “If you get out of this, I want you to kill me.”

“He’s not gonna kill you,” Sam said. His voice was weak but he gave Dean a shaky smile and thumbs up. “We’re gonna help you with these demons. You’ll be able to go back to your family.”

“Sam, you okay?” Dean asked, awash with relief. 

“I’ll live,” Sam said drily.

The lock binding Dean’s manacle clicked and Dean sighed in relief as the cuff fell away. He struggled in the chains wrapped around him until they loosened enough so he could wriggle out of them. Then he limped over to Sam and crouched in front of him. Sam’s hair was matted with dried blood but he didn’t seem to be bleeding anymore. “Still got that demon blade, Sammy?”

Sam grunted. “Nope. Those fuckers must have taken it when they knocked me out.” He looked at Dean’s grim expression and surmised quickly, “Demons. Of course.”

“Yep,” Dean said. He finished picking the lock binding Sam to the pillar and helped untangle him from the chains. Then he held out the lockpick to Sam and glanced over at Annie. “You get her outta here, okay?”

Sam widened his eyes in shock and his jaw dropped for a moment before he glared at Dean. “Oh, no. I’m not leaving you to fight demons on your own, Dean.”

“Yes, you are. And that wasn’t a request, it was an order. You didn’t get the whole story but she’s innocent in this whole thing. She’s got a family they’re threatening, Sam. And I’m gonna take ‘em down.”

“Dean, listen to yourself. You’re gonna take on multiple demons without the knife? Alone? Are you insane?” He glanced at Annie and lowered his voice. “I’ve been clean ever since Lilith, Dean. You know that. So if this is about--”

“This ain’t about that. It’s about saving an innocent and--”

“Bullshit.” Sam’s eyes were narrowed as though he could see into Dean. “You don’t trust me.”

“What? I--” Dean shook his head and thrust the lockpick into Sam’s hand. Sam took it and climbed to his feet, though he winced in pain as he did so.

“You don’t trust me. And that’s…” Sam shook his head. “That’s not fine. But we can get past it. Dean, I swear to god, we will. But going in alone? That’s suicide, Dean. And you might be ready for that but I am not fucking ready. We’ll get her out of here together and then I’m going with you.”

Dean swiped a hand over his bloody cheek and looked at the red smear over his palm with a sigh. He suddenly felt so tired. “What if you can’t handle it, Sam? I can’t watch out for you and fight, man.”

“Trust me.” Sam towered over Dean, his face a complex mask of sincere pleading and defiance.

Dean grimaced. Sam was right of course, even if Dean couldn’t say it out loud. The combination of demons and Sam ended in a bloody ring smeared around his brother’s mouth and a solid week of detox agony. Try as he might, Dean couldn’t shake that gut-clenching fear that this time he might not be able to pull Sam back from the edge. But Castiel was in trouble and there were demons to fight and innocent people to protect. And Sam was right… He couldn’t take them on all alone. Finally, Dean nodded wearily. “Fine. We’ll get her outta here first, though.”

“Deal,” Sam said and strode over to Annie. She sat on the floor, looking at them with an odd echo of Sam’s expression.

“I’m going with you,” she announced.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Dean growled. “No. Not you too.” He looked her over. “Look, you’re surprisingly fast for the whole housewife thing you got going on here. But you’re just gonna get yourself or us killed.”

“I’ll bet I know where they are right now. There are two ways up to the little office in this warehouse and if you go one way, you’re hidden from the windows almost the whole time. You need me. I’ll lead you straight to them.”

Sam looked at Dean, who finally dropped his chin to his chest in defeat. “Fucking. Fine,” he said. “Fine. But you gotta stay back from the fight, okay? Run, hide. Do what you gotta do.”

Sam unlocked her cuff and she rubbed her ankle appreciatively, then pulled herself to standing. “I will do anything to get back to my family,” she said. “But they won’t ever be safe until these demons are dead and I won’t ever be able to sleep at night unless I see it with my own two eyes.” She shook out her hands nervously. “Okay. So what do we do?”

Dean tried to quash the feeling of panic as he gathered up lengths of iron rebar from a corner of the warehouse, passing them to Sam and Annie. Annie led the way out of a side door and into a dusty, sun-heated corridor. They followed her up a narrow flight of stairs that skirted up through a corner of the building and down a plywood-blocked hallway.

They caught the first demon off guard just outside the office. Dean whacked it in the head with all his strength, Sam and Annie spreading out behind him. The demon went down and ricocheted off the wall, stunned and bloody. “Check him for the blade,” he said and Sam moved in on the demon. The sight of Sam bending over the groggy demon’s head wound froze him long enough for the second demon to race out of the office and get the jump on him.

The demon wrapped her hand in his shirt and pulled him into her orbit. Dean’s face collided with her closed fist. Dean staggered back, his vision sparking in one eye and she followed her blow with another punch to the jaw and a knee slammed into his side. Dean collapsed on the floor before he quite realized what was happening. Mouth drawn into a grimace, he scrambled back, spat blood, and hauled himself up again with the rebar clutched tight in his fist.

The first demon lay prone on the floor, bleeding profusely onto the floor from the wound Dean had hacked into his head. Sam swung his iron rebar at another demon’s kneecaps and Annie fled to the desk where she was emptying out drawers frantically. Sam must have told her to search for the blade. 

Dean’s demon snarled and yelled an incoherent challenge as she lunged for him again. More prepared for the attack, Dean swung the iron bar up in a deadly curve, connecting with her chin. She staggered back, shook her head minutely as though shaking off a gentle tap, and laughed. “Dean Winchester. In the flesh.”

Sam let out a strangled howl and Dean’s attention shifted for just a moment from the demon in front of him. Sam’s demon had him pinned to the wall by his throat and as he watched, Annie raced up behind the demon with the demon blade raised high. “Sam!” Dean yelled, desperately trying to evaluate the best way past the demon corning him so he could help his brother. The demon holding Sam swatted Annie away and her head struck the desk. She collapsed on the floor and lay still, the knife clattering out of her hand and disappearing under the desk. 

Dean swung into action, whipping the bar around and striking a solid hit across the demon’s face. She recoiled, stumbling back a few steps, and Dean pressed his advantage. He might not have a ready way to get to the knife, but he could evict them. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus.” He spat the words of the exorcism out between grunts and punctuated every line with kicks and strikes with the bar, driving her back. She started to howl as the exorcism began to take hold. And then she struck out with her foot and landed a surprise strike to his throat. Dean choked for air, staggering back, the exorcism unfinished. Now the demon grinned and, eyes still storm black, she advanced on Dean and grabbed him by the throat, choking off the rest of the exorcism ritual. 

The demon pushed him back into a concrete pillar, the corner of it pressing into his spine. Dean tried to grin at her, managing pry her hand away just enough to growl, “Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura.” 

The demon cut off his air again and leaned in close. It was her turn to grin. “We captured an angel,” she said in a quiet singsong, her breath ghosting over the ridge of his nose. “And not just any angel. The Winchester’s own little pet.” She chortled. “Annie’s a god given miracle - lower case ‘g’ of course. Over a thousand years we’ve been tracking this family, trying to get our hands on little miss or mister sacrificial sculptor themselves. We’d been trying to track down all the little branches of that family tree for a long time.

“And when we did? Oh, it was glorious. The power we had over other demons! Over men and women who got in our way! You have no idea! And neither did they. Nobody knew how we were getting rid of the big bad demons in charge, they just knew that we made a threat and then demons and their meat suits disappeared. Demons are one thing. But an angel? I didn’t think it would work. Didn’t think it could trap the great Cas-tee-ell.” She drew out his name in a singsong. “But Annie just pulled him in like a fly to honey.” The demon shivered exaggeratedly. “I mean, I get tingles just thinking about it. He’s an angel, right? So he can’t die. But those small god powers. Mmmm they just won’t let him go. The magic’s too old. So it’s nighty night sleep tight little angel.” She walked the fingers of her free hand up his chest slowly. “If you build it, he will come.”

Dean tried to roll his eyes at her, though in reality he just ended up gurgling. Black spots danced in his vision.

“And now we have little Sam Winchester. Devil’s meatsuit all ready to go. We’d trap him like a fly in amber except he’d probably be useless after that. But you… You I might not kill directly. I’ll have the little sculptor carve herself up a Dean lookalike and we’ll keep it, unfinished, as security.” She caressed his chest with one sharp nail. “If she finishes it, you’re worse than dead. You’ll walk right up to that sculpture of yourself and it’ll suck you up like a sponge in water. I’ve got a warehouse full of Annie’s work. All those little demons trapped in butter ‘til judgment day comes. I can’t wait to add y--”

Dimly Dean heard Sam utter the last few words of the exorcism and the demon’s mouth flew open. Black smoke streamed from her mouth, and flew towards the floor like it had been suctioned. 

Dean collapsed to the floor, gasping. When his vision returned he saw Sam staggering around to check on Annie, pressing his finger to her throat. He nodded at Dean in relief and Dean felt his own shoulders sag. She was alive. He bent to check the woman who lay at his feet but the demon had been possessing a good-as-dead body. She had no pulse, nor did the demon he’d attacked in the hallway. Dean swallowed and tried not to think about whether it was his blow to the man’s head that had killed him. The demon who had attacked Sam had left a living man behind, however and he struggled for breath in the corner, cradling his arm with tears streaking his shocked face. 

Annie groaned from the ground and Sam knelt beside her. “You alright?” He asked and she nodded slowly, pressing a shaky hand to the back of her head. Sam helped a wobbly Annie to her feet, and fished the demon blade out from under the desk, jamming it into his belt. 

The ex-demon on the floor groaned loudly, fingers white where they clutched his arm. Annie gasped, pointing a shaking hand at him. Sam laid a calming hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay. It’s okay. We exorcised the demon from his body. That’s just a human now.” Annie’s eyes grew wide but she nodded. She stayed pressed close to Sam.

“You okay?” Dean asked Sam anxiously, his voice hoarse with bruising.

Sam made a pained face but nodded. “Been worse,” he said shortly.

Dean huffed out a relieved and commiserating breath and slapped Sam on the shoulder before turning to the young man on the floor who still heaved desperate, ragged breaths. It looked like the start of a panic attack so Dean crouched low and looked at him closely. “Hey man,” he said. “You’re alright. You’re gonna be okay. We’re gonna get you some help.” The man looked around at them, panicked, and then looked at the two bodies lying on the floor. He went sheet white, then his eyes rolled up in his head and he slumped to the floor. “Shit,” Dean exclaimed, and reached for the man’s pulse. When it appeared that it was steady, Dean looked sharply at Annie.

“That demon said you had some kind of sacrificial god given sculpture powers. You know anything about that?”

Annie leaned heavily on Sam and nodded. “Just what they told me. I never really knew if I should believe it or if it was just a line they used to control me. According to them, a long, long time ago a god gave one of my ancestors the power to create sacrificial sculptures. The victims would be compelled to climb inside the sculptures where they’d suffocate, and then the sculpture with the sacrifice inside would stay in the temple forever.”

“You happen to know the name of the god?” Dean asked. Maybe they could research the god, call it up, and kill it. 

Annie shook her head. “They were so vague. I don’t think they knew much more than that.”

“Any of them happen to say how these powers work? Or how they’re undone? Right now our friend’s in trouble,” Dean said. “So anything you can tell us might help us save him.”

“Cas?” Sam asked, meeting Dean’s eyes with alarm. 

Dean nodded abruptly. “She finished the sculpture. He’s… He’s inside it.”

Sam looked horrorstruck as Annie began to speak, “I don’t think there’s actually a way to undo it. My grandma used to say there was a way, and maybe it’s true, but it’s too late for your friend. He must-- He must have suffocated by now.”

Excitement coursed through Dean. “Let’s assume that the person doesn’t suffocate.” At her puzzled expression he added, “Angels don’t need air.”

Annie’s face seemed to struggle between shock and exhaustion at the mention of “angel” before she shrugged slightly and said, “Well, my grandma used to tell a story about the curse. I always just assumed it was her way of trying to make it romantic. Give us a happy ending.” Annie grimaced, her expression bitter as she spat, “But she wasn’t cursed. It’s easier to make up stories when it doesn’t affect you directly. As far as I’ve experienced, once the sacrifice is in the sculpture, they suffocate. But my grandma tells a story about a fairy queen who’d been sculpted. She was trapped for a fortnight and on the final day her lover found her and pulled her out of the wood. She was dead, apparently, or looked dead. But when her lover kissed her she came back to life.” Annie shrugged. “Sort of like a Sleeping Beauty, Disney princess kind of thing. Honestly, I think it’s just a story my family made up to try to feel better about our powers. Like there’s hope.” Her expression was bleak and she pulled away from Sam’s arm to lean down and press her hand on the unconscious ex-demon’s shoulder. “We should get him to a doctor and then you--” she looked at Dean, her voice trembling on a sob. “You know what to do. I’m too-- Too dangerous.” Her mouth twisted bitterly. “Who knows? Maybe killing me will break the curse.”

Dean swallowed heavily. “I ain’t gonna kill you,” he said, even as he wondered if he might. If killing Annie would take a powerful weapon out of the world and bring Castiel back to life, would it be worth the stain of innocent blood on his hands?  _ Future me would do that and not even bat an eye. _ And that solidified it for him. “We won’t kill you. You’re innocent in this. You should go back to your family. Run back home and then you take that family of yours and disappear. Change your names this time. Change everything and maybe Hell will lose you for good.”

Annie’s face crumpled and a raw sob escaped her before she nodded. “You’ll never hear from me again. I swear.”

“Good,” Dean looked at the unconscious man on the floor. While he and Annie had been talking Sam had recovered their cell phones from the desk. “Sam, why don’t you call an ambulance in for this guy? He should be fine until they get here. We gotta get to Cas.” Sam nodded and busied himself with the call. “Annie, you can go home but first I want you to come and see if we can do anything for Cas.”

“Okay,” Annie said in a small voice. She shoved trembling hands into her pockets and looked to Sam expectantly as he finished talking and hung up the phone. Sam slipped his phone into his pocket, then handed Dean his phone, gun, and knives. As they wound their way out of the warehouse a siren sounded bleakly in the distance.

* * *

It only took Dean moments to orient himself once they emerged from the warehouse. The building sat across from the empty field by the entrance. Alone and off by itself, it was apparently the perfect staging ground for the demons to observe the fair and keep a close eye on Annie. Dean, Sam, and Annie cut a path through the dry-stubbled field towards the dairy building. The sun was high in the sky already and Dean cursed to see the parking lot filling with fairgoers. They slipped into the shadow of combine on display and took turns swiping at each other with a handkerchief Dean had pulled from his pocket. When most of the blood was wiped away they emerged back into the sunlight and headed into the dairy exhibit hall.

Dean’s head throbbed with pain and worry and he tried to force his expression to relax enough to not draw attention to their progress through the building. He knew anyone scrutinizing them would notice the collection of fresh bruises and scrapes and he forced himself to walk slowly and carefully past the fairgoers already inside. They wound their way past a gaggle of school children on a tour and several adults before he reached the entrance to the butter sculpture room. The doors were propped open; the coolant system must have been deemed fixed. Over a dozen people milled from statue to statue, leaning over the ropes for a better look or taking selfies. Dean shot past them all, his gut heavy with fear, until at last he arrived at the statue of Castiel. 

The statue was finished. Castiel gazed out at the fairgoers with the stoic expression of a warrior, calm and beautiful, with his fists raised to fight. His eyes were smooth and yellow and horribly empty.

“Oh god. Cas,” Sam said, arriving at Dean’s side. 

“You think he’s in there?” Dean asked breathlessly.

“I finished the sculpture. He’s got to be.” Annie’s voice was flat.

“So we dig him out.” Dean unhooked one of the red velvet ropes and dropped it to the floor with a crack that echoed in the vaulted room. 

Sam huffed in agreement and nodded. “Yeah. Tonight we’ll--”

“No,” Dean’s molars ground together as he fought to keep calm. “Now.” 

Dean made a move for the case and Sam grabbed his sleeve and held him fast. “Not with all these people, man.” He looked at Dean and must have seen his resolve in his eyes because he sighed and said, “Just...let me clear people out first, okay? Annie, you’re with Dean.” Annie nodded and they both waited while Sam approached the fairgoers in the large room and informed them about the unfortunate return of the coolant system problems and that they would need to leave for an hour or two. Slowly, Sam shuffled everyone out, snatching the “Exhibit Closed” sign from a hook on the wall and placing it at the doors. He held his hands out for a moment and yelled across the room, “No key! I’ll keep watch just outside, okay?”

“Got it,” Dean replied shortly, and he stood back from the display case to let Annie pull her key out and unlock the glass door. 

“What are you gonna do?” Annie asked.

Dean sized up all nine feet of the sculpture. “We dig him out,” he said then led the way inside. For a moment he simply stood in front of the marble smooth butter, reminding himself to breathe. Terror ran through him spider quick. If Castiel was encased, yet alive, there was no indication of it. The sculpture didn’t move. Dean reached out his hand tentatively towards the sculpture, afraid for a moment that by digging his fingertips into the butter he would be destroying Castiel quite literally with his own hands. 

“Okay,” he muttered. “I can do this.” Dean sunk his fingers into the chilled butter just above Castiel’s left knee. The butter was hard and it cracked as Dean wedged his fingers into the leg of the oversized sculpture. He’d managed to wedge his fingers up to his palm in the sculpture when he hit it.  _ Fabric _ . He lost his breath in a low gasp and pushed in farther.  _ Definitely fabric. _

Dean began to tear at the butter encased leg, exposing enough of Castiel’s suit pants to ascertain that he was, in fact, held in the middle of the statue. “Annie, you get his legs free. I’m gonna work on his face.” Clearing his nose and mouth suddenly seemed to be of paramount importance and while Annie began tearing at the butter towards the base, Dean dragged a tall stepladder over so he could reach Castiel’s face.

Carefully Dean began to scrape his fingers into the butter around Castiel’s nose and mouth. A three inch coating of butter seemed to cover Castiel almost uniformly and he quickly learned just how deeply he could sink his fingers in before he met Castiel’s soft skin. In the cold room the butter began to peel off in chunks. Dean dropped these to the wooden pallet below and soon exposed Castiel’s nose and wide mouth. His skin was lax, the sheen of butter making him look pallid and diseased, and Dean couldn’t tell if any air moved under his nostrils. He dug harder until he freed Castiel’s head and neck. He slid his palms over Castiel’s cheeks so he could cradle his head in his hand. Castiel’s head was heavy and motionless in his grip and Dean leaned in close and patted him gently on the cheek. “We’ll get you out of this, buddy. I swear.” It hurt to breathe suddenly and all he could think was,  _ I lost him again _ . Dean shook his head. He couldn’t afford to lose focus. Gently, he laid Castiel’s head onto the wide shoulder of the butter coat and began to clear his chest and arms. 

Annie had made rapid progress on Castiel’s legs and managed to clear them by the time Dean had finished with his torso. Although most of his body was soon freed from the sculpture, Castiel still sagged upright against the sculpture like a pinioned bird. It took Dean a moment to understand why he was still supported. Castiel was held up by his wings - actual wings - still encased in the butter. 

Scraping away some of the butter from Castiel’s shoulders and back confirmed his suspicion. Massive deep brown wings cascaded from Castiel, the back of his shirt and coat shredded at the base as though both wings had burst through the fabric spontaneously. And perhaps they had. “Annie, I need you to help me with these,” he said, gesturing to the wings. 

Annie’s eyes widened. “Holy shit, those are real?”

“Apparently.” Dean hauled the step ladder around to the back so he could reach the sweeping curve of feathers at the top of the sculpture. 

“So. Angels are real and have wings,” Annie grunted as she got to work on the base of the wings where feathers swept across the floor. “It’s so hard to believe.”

“Says the woman with scary god sculpture powers,” Dean said sharply, clearing the arc of Castiel’s wing down to the feathery base. Castiel’s feathers were soft and pliant, even with the weight of butter on them, and Dean made sure to remove the butter carefully, worried about damaging them. 

“This is the way I was supposed to do it. With the wings.” Annie said, “They gave me those pictures of Castiel and said to give him wings. Gave me some drawings to start off with and the rest just...came to me while I was sculpting it.” They worked in silence for a few minutes, punctuated by the sound of their harsh breathing and the soft whumps of butter falling to the floor below. Then she asked, “They kept talking about...the apocalypse. Is that real too? Like angels?”

Dean grunted. “It’s real, alright.”

“Shit.”

“Yup.”

They finally finished clearing the worst of the butter. Annie strained to support Castiel while Dean pried his magnificent wings free from the last of the sculpture. Together, they lowered Castiel to the wooden platform. He slumped against the chunks of butter littering the floor and Dean carefully cleared a space and then stepped around him so he could fold his limp wings close to his back. 

Castiel’s feathers were greasy and cold to the touch, but even with the butter and the chill of the room taken into effect, they felt strange and heavy like exquisitely worked metal. Dean carefully took hold of one of the wing bones and swept the leading edge forward and down so it nestled alongside Castiel’s body. He brushed his hand carefully down the edge, smoothing away flecks of butter and making sure the wing pressed close to his side so he could turn Castiel over. he folded back Castiel’s coat like a blanket, cradling the wing. Dean did the same with the other side and then, as he supported the wings, he and Annie turned Castiel over. 

Once he lay on his back, Castiel’s wings slumped loosely around his shoulders and splayed along the wood like a felled bird. His chin dropped to one side. “What do we do now?” Annie whispered.

“I was hoping that you destroying the sculpture might somehow break the curse but…” Dean ran a butter covered hand through his hair and looked around. “I don’t know.” The room remained empty. With Sam guarding the door ogling eyes were kept out for now but they wouldn’t have much time. The fair would only get busier and eventually an official would come to investigate the closed exhibit. They had to figure out a way to get Castiel out of the warehouse and somewhere safe where they’d have time to research a way to bring him out of his apparent cursed slumber. Because they  _ would _ revive him, even if the world had to burn around them for it to happen.

Dean settled back on his heels and tried to reign in his panic because here was Castiel - as good as dead no matter what Dean did. He leaned in close and slipped a palm against Castiel’s cheek to tip his chin up. “Cas? Cas, buddy, you in there?” He glanced up at the ceiling. “Uh, if you’re not, break a light bulb or something.” Dean grabbed Castiel’s shoulder and shook him. “Come on snap out of it, man. You’re safe now. You’re gonna be fine.” His voice cracked a little and he cleared his throat. “You’re gonna be fine.”

Castiel lay still, utterly unresponsive. The end of the world approached like an seething runaway train but all Dean wanted to see was Castiel’s eyes open just one more time. “Buddy, I can’t do this without you, okay? You gotta wake up. Come on, Cas.” Dean slowly dropped his forehead to meet Castiel’s. “I need you, man,” he muttered as he sorted frantically through their options. He tried to imagine himself fighting Heaven and Hell with just himself, Sam, and the loose network of hunter friends they’d assembled over the past couple of years. He closed his eyes and breathed against Castiel’s skin. It wasn’t enough.  _ He _ wasn’t enough. But with Castiel, he thought they had a fighting chance. He had only known Castiel for a little over a year.  _ But Cas is my rock _ , he thought.  _ He’s always there. And I would try anything, do anything to save him. _

Then a thought occurred to him. He immediately discarded it.  _ It’s stupid. _

“What’s stupid?” Annie asked and Dean jumped when he realized that he had muttered the words aloud. He felt the tips of his ears heat and kept his face hidden, tucked next to Castiel’s. “What? What are you thinking?” Annie asked. She sniffled loudly.

Dean shook his head. “I.. It’s dumb. It was a stupid idea.”

“If it could save him, it’s not dumb. What were you thinking about?”

What he had in mind was nebulous, a golden thread of an idea in a tangled rat’s nest of emotions and fears. He felt his already fast pulse pick up more speed, because what he was about to propose was something he couldn’t rationally explain. It was a feeling. A hunch. “What if…” Dean said slowly and met her eye. “What if I try a kiss?”

“A...kiss?” Annie sounded doubtful. “That was just a story. And anyway, the story said it was a true love’s kiss that broke the spe--” She broke off suddenly, her eyebrows flying up. “Oh.” She looked between Dean and Castiel’s prone form, gaze lingering on the way he cradled his cheek. “Oh, I see.” And then her face fell again. “But that was just a story.”

Dean looked back down at Castiel and brushed his thumb slowly along his familiar cheekbone. “Every story starts some place. What if… What if it’s… Oh, hell.” He bent over Castiel’s prone body, took one trembling breath, and then pressed his lips to Castiel’s slack mouth.


	5. The End, The Beginning

Nothing happened.

Of course nothing happened. Castiel lay on the ground still and slumbering. Dean pressed his fingers to Castiel’s throat, then his cheek. If there was a pulse, it was too weak to register. “Fuck,” he said, very quietly. Then he shifted his head so he could lay it by Castiel’s shoulder. “I need you,” he whispered. “I can’t do this without you. Please come back. Please. I--” _I might love you._ Words hovered unsaid, just out of reach. Dean tried to swallow down the sorrow burning his throat and his breath hitched. “Please.”

Castiel lay unmoving and after almost a minute of burying his face in Castiel’s shoulder as he fought to control his emotions, he said, “Okay. Okay.” He stroked his fingers along Castiel’s cheek and raised his head to gaze at his closed eyes. “We’re gonna get you out of here, okay? Somewhere safe.” He closed his eyes and dipped his head to drop one last soft kiss on the corner of Castiel’s lips.

Castiel’s mouth twitched beneath his own. Dean’s eyes flew open as Castiel moved his head so that his top lip fit neatly in the seam of Dean’s mouth. Startled, Dean tried to jerk his head away but Castiel wrapped a very strong, very much alive hand around the back of his head and pressed upward as though seeking more contact.

Dean whimpered into the kiss, the emotions of the afternoon and the ache in his body blurring his thoughts into the blaze of the moment. Castiel slid his other palm over Dean’s shoulder and Dean arched his spine like a cat so he could pull his other hand up to cradle Castiel’s suddenly animated face.

“Dean,” Castiel moaned into his mouth, winding his fingers into his shirt. “Dean.”

When they finally pulled apart they were both gasping. Castiel’s eyes were wide, his lips red and parted. He looked like an absolute mess, completely covered in flecks of butter, eyes alight with an uncertain joy. Dean couldn’t help it. He burst into a grin at the sight. “Cas,” he said stupidly. “You’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” Castiel said warmly and then he looked around them, noting the glass enclosure littered with mounds of chunky butter. “I’m okay?” Then he caught sight of his wings and he rolled quickly to his knees, the look of pleased bliss fleeing his face instantly. He turned to Dean with wide eyes. “What happened?”

Dean slid a hand to his shoulder and gripped it tightly to hide the tremble in his fingers. “A hell of a lot, man. We’ll fill you in. Long story short, you got whammied by a butter curse.”

“A butter curse,” Castiel repeated, his tone flat with disbelief.

Dean winced. “Yeah. It’s been a weird ride.” He looked around the exhibit hall. “Listen, first we gotta get you out of here. He grimaced at Castiel. “Any chance the wings are working?”

Castiel’s wings twitched and Dean jumped a little in surprise. Just the barest movement of them reminded him of the feel of a storm rolling in across the ocean, heavy with static and power. Castiel leaned forward, then unfolded his wings until his primary feathers met the close glass walls. He knelt like an ancient monument for a moment, then screwed his face into a frown, ruining the effect of his majestic wings almost immediately. After a few seconds he shook his head. “My powers must still be ‘zapped’ by the ‘butter curse’,” he said.

“Well, not a problem, buddy. We’ll smuggle you out of here and head out to Bobby’s. You can lay low there until your wings...you know…” Dean made a _whooshing_ noise and mimed the wings disappearing. He turned to Annie. “Go tell Sam,” he said and she smiled through her tears and rushed out of the enclosure towards the doors.

“You’re gonna be fine,” Dean said. Castiel nodded slowly, his face pinched with worry. Dean struggled to his feet, slipping on butter before holding out a hand to Castiel. As he helped him to stand, Castiel’s wings darted out as he slid on the buttery surface, smacking the glass with a resounding boom.

At the same time, Sam let out a startled exclamation from the exhibit entrance. Dean turned to watch Sam as he raced across the hall. He skidded to a stop outside of the little glass doorway and his jaw dropped wide as he took in Castiel’s wings. “We need a tarp,” he said finally.

“On it,” Annie called from across the hall and she ran up with a bright blue plastic tarp balled up in her arms.

Dean gripped Castiel’s hand and helped him to step across the mounded butter to the doorway. He took the tarp from Annie and shook it out. Then he pulled the covering carefully over Castiel’s shoulders, arranging it in front of his chest where Castiel could clasp it close to him. “Is that okay? Does it hurt?”

“No, Dean,” Castiel’s voice was once again oddly quiet and gentle. “I’m fine.”

“Good,” Dean said, feeling a little breathless as he stared into Castiel’s steady blue gaze. “Good. Let’s get you out of here.”

* * *

Castiel insisted on heading back to the bed and breakfast to get clean. “Without my powers,” he said from his hunched position in the Impala’s back seat, “I need space to clean my wings. The type of establishment in which you ordinarily stay would not adequately accommodate their size. Whereas the shower where you are currently staying appeared to be quite spacious.”

Dean eyed the massive blue bulges rising out from the back seat. The tarp-covered wings loomed over Sam and Annie, who sat squashed together in the front seat. “Don’t think any place could totally fit your wings, Cas. But I hear what you’re saying. We’ll find a way to get you in and out again.”

Dean swung by a gas station to pick up some dishwashing soap Sam insisted they needed. (“I saw it on a documentary, Dean!”) Then Sam and Annie went inside the bed and breakfast first to distract any guests or Rita Dalloway if she happened to be around. Annie needed very little impetus to muster up tears about her ‘poor ruined sculpture’ after the emotional events of the day; Dean could hear her sobbing hysterically for the audience gathered in the sitting room from all the way upstairs. Dean unlocked their bedroom door and stood back to let Castiel walk inside first.

Castiel pushed through the doorway, the plastic tarp crinkling loudly as he squeezed his wings through the doorframe. Once inside and the door safely closed behind them, Dean helped him to pull off the tarp and Castiel spread his wings a little, feathers ruffling in the quiet room.

Dean couldn’t help it. He laughed.

Castiel turned a narrowed eye his way. “This isn’t funny, Dean. My wings are manifest, my power is extremely low, and I’m covered in butter.” He craned his neck back to eye his wings in distaste. “And I’d really like to clean this off and…” He cocked his head to the side and frowned a little. “Sleep, I think.”

“Wow. Okay.” Dean scratched his head and tossed his thumb towards the bathroom door. “That soap Sam got you should be good.” He fished the bottle out of the bag and handed it to Castiel. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Castiel’s gaze lingered on Dean and he didn’t move at first. His fingers rolled in and out of fists restlessly at his side. Finally, he nodded sharply and disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door gently behind him.

Dean let loose a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He scrubbed his hand through his hair, then made a face and swiped his palm on his jeans. He was also covered in butter. As soon as Castiel finished he would need to get in there and clean up as well. His body felt divided into pieces clamoring for attention: throbbing head, aching muscles, buzzing lips. He walked towards his duffel for a change of clothes, then changed his mind and headed for the door and see how Sam fared downstairs. He could hear rustling in the bathroom and he tried not to think about bare skin, and water, and Castiel. Indecisive, he doubled back towards his duffel bag again.

A minute later the bathroom door flew open. Castiel scowled at Dean from the doorway; his wings were black blades backlit by the brightly lit bathroom. “I need your help with my coat,” he bit out.

Dean looked up from his pacing on the opposite side of the room. “Your coat?” he asked and then kicked himself when he looked closely at Castiel. His wings protruded from his coat through large, jagged tears. Fabric hung in tatters below the feathers. “Shit, Cas. I’m sorry.” He dashed across the room. “Here, step in here where there’s more room.” Castiel squeezed through the doorway and allowed Dean to gently turn him around so his back faced the light. The holes were large but still hemmed in by seams on the shoulders and sides so tearing the coat off wasn’t an option. He could cut through the fabric with his knife, however. “Cas, can you hold still long enough for me to cut that away from your wings?”

“Of course, Dean,” Castiel said, sounding affronted. He stood very still as Dean carefully worked the blade of his utility knife into the loose flaps of ripped fabric. He slit the coat upward, splitting the seams near the outside shoulders. Castiel’s coat, then his jacket, and shirt fell away. Dean helped him clear them from his arms and wings until Castiel stood bare chested in the room. He still looked halfway wrecked, with a greasy coating of butter in his hair and his wings, but with his clothing peeled off he looked remarkably improved.

Dean stepped back, grateful to be standing behind Castiel where he could shield his expression. He pressed his lips together and tried to get a handle on his heart rate, which had catapulted upward with each removed layer. “Can you, uh, get the rest?”

“Yes. Thank you, Dean.” Castiel glanced over his shoulder, his eyes dark mysteries and his mouth set in a gentle line. He nodded slightly at Dean, then retreated back to the bathroom.

The moment the door closed Dean let out a shaky breath and crouched down low, ostensibly to gather up Castiel’s ruined clothing. What he really needed to do was take a moment to catch his breath.

Knowing Castiel was alive and well brought a jumble of relief, joy, and a new wave of fear. Fear because, of course, they’d kissed. It probably meant nothing, not really. Castiel was an angel and an incredibly socially awkward one at that. He was always misjudging how to interact with humans in a normal way. After the kiss, he’d seemed to revert back to treating Dean in the exact same way he had before. Maybe it had just been Castiel exploring something new, or a mania best attributed to a rush of endorphins upon waking up. Dean needed to get a hold of himself. Ever since he’d come back from Zachariah’s future he’d felt shaky, on edge...not himself. He cleared his throat and bundled up Castiel’s clothing. They’d wash it before they left, or maybe Castiel would just clean and repair it once he’d regained his powers.

The shower turned on in the bathroom and a door clunked shut and Dean’s only thought beyond _quit imagining him naked_ was _I need to leave_. He dropped the pile of clothes in the corner and was about to reach for the doorknob when Castiel called, “Dean?”

Dean froze with his fingertips on the handle. “Yeah?”

“I need some...assistance with my wings.”

 _Of course._ Dean dropped his chin in defeat and then turned to open the bathroom door instead. The bathroom was already steamy and Dean closed the door carefully behind him to keep the warmth inside the small room. Castiel’s pants and white boxers lay in a heap on the floor, belt snaking out across the plush rug by the sink. Dean pushed his shirt sleeves up past his arms nervously. Castiel was just a large dark blur through the opaque shower door, the smell of lemon scented dish soap nearly overwhelming.

“I managed to reach most of my body, Dean, but I can’t reach all of my wings. Not in this form.”

 _Not in this form?_ Dean had never stopped to think about the true form of angels but now, with Castiel shifting slowly in the shower beyond, it was all he could think about. Just beyond that slim glass door an incomprehensible being stood, stoically sudsing up his borrowed arms with dish soap. “What do you need from me?”

“I need you to help me reach some of my back feathers. I’ve twisted them in every way I can but it’s really quite impossible.” The dark shape of his wing moved quickly in demonstration, knocking into the side of the stall with a surprisingly loud clang. Castiel muttered something dark and low, like a curse.

“Jesus! Okay. Hold on, I’m coming in there.” For a moment Dean hesitated outside the shower door, then shook his head. He was being ridiculous. He kicked off his shoes and peeled off his socks. He shed his shirts and then his jeans, dropping them all in a contained pile near the sink. Then, with his boxers on like armor, he reached for the shower door. “Coming in, Cas.”

Castiel appeared to move back from the door, his massive wings blocking the spray of water. Dean opened the shower to see a wall of feathers springing from Castiel's muscled back. He stepped inside and carefully closed the shower door. “What can I do?”

Castiel nudged the bottle of soap back with his foot and angled his body so he could half display one wing. “Wash the feathers at the base and those in the middle. I’m unable to reach them.”

Dean looked at the wing. It was darker now that it was wet, a solid black panel of feather running with water and suds. If he squinted it really did look like a bird wing, a long, jointed appendage sprouting from Castiel’s muscular back. It was huge and strong, and looking at where it sprouted from Castiel’s shoulder blades, it shouldn’t have existed or even been remotely anatomically possible. He got the sense that these were the one aspect of the true Castiel that were allowed to bleed through onto the earthly plain. It was like they weren’t attached to the human-vesseled Castiel, but anchored instead to that mysterious ball of energy inside. He ran a careful hand down the back of the wing. It twitched at his touch and Dean raised his hand for a moment until it settled again. He lowered his palm as though he were touching a wild animal, careful and slow.

The wing was covered in feathers - little feathers near the top that had seemed to soak up most of the grease, and longer feathers that reached low and scraped the shower floor. He crouched down to pick up the soap - eyes desperately averted from Castiel’s naked ass - and stood quickly, relieved to focus on the wing. He’d be fine if he only focused on the wing and not on the alluring blended beast of celestial being and devastatingly handsome human man standing before him. He poured some soap into his palm, worked it into a lather, and got to work on the streaked grease coating the feathers. The feathers lifted a little as he worked, allowing Dean to carefully massage the soap over the top and around the sides. Castiel’s feathers were smooth and shone black under the water. They felt heavy in some ineffable way, light-weight in his hands but weighted somehow, as though they possessed individual gravity pools. While the feathers of a bird’s wing zipped together, Castiel’s feathers felt like hundreds of little silken kites, the edges defined but soft, their texture smooth. It made washing off the butter an easier task and Dean soon finished with one wing. Castiel turned and exposed his other wing with a light hum.

Dean washed the back of his other wing. They didn’t speak.

When he finished and had run his fingertips down the wingbacks carefully, he stepped back and set the soap down in the corner of the shower. Dean cleared his throat, wishing desperately to be wearing more clothing so he could shove his fidgety hands into pockets. He tucked them under his arms. “You’re all set, man. Looks good back here.”

Castiel sighed quietly, a contented sound. He sounded blissed out, tongue slurring a little as he said, “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean patted him on his back above the base of his wings. “No problem.”

“Dean?”

“Yeah, Cas?”

“Will you help me check the front of of my wings for any spots missed?”

 _Sweet merciful…_ “Sure.”

Castiel turned around carefully in the shower. It was large enough for two people, but the space barely fit a human and an angel with full wingspan. Dean pressed himself into the corner of the stall until Castiel could make the full turn, and kept his eyes on Castiel’s head the entire time. He was acutely aware that Castiel was completely naked, so the most self-preserving thing Dean could do, he thought, was to keep eye contact. As soon as Castiel’s gaze caught his, however, Dean knew he’d made the wrong play.

Castiel’s expression was relaxed; a small half smile played at his lips. His eyes, however... His eyes took a sledgehammer to Dean’s walls. They were wide and dark and pleading, as though a question bubbled behind them. Dean pressed into the corner of the stall. He stared at Castiel and words left him. His hands hung at his sides. He’d forgotten what he was supposed to do with them.

Eventually Castiel dipped his chin, bowing his head towards his right wing. “How does it look?” he asked quietly.

Dean pinned his eyes to the curve of his wing and saw the sheen of grease clinging to some of the feathers. “Still a little bit there. I’ll get it.” He closed his eyes entirely so he could crouch down and pick up the soap again. By the time he’d stood and opened his eyes, Castiel had half unfolded his wing so it curved through the shower like a curtain. Dean squirted soap into his palm and got to work.

By the time he was done the water had gone from blazing hot to lukewarm and Dean was fully hard in his wet, plastered boxers. Though his focus had been on the wings, he’d spent what had felt like an incredibly long amount of time sliding across Castiel’s firm chest, or with his head near Castiel’s hip, working on the lower feathers that were more difficult for Castiel to reach. Castiel’s breathing had changed once he’d turned around and the longer Dean worked, the more it had emerged in little short pants that hitched when Dean tugged a feather or slicked his shoulder across his skin. There was so much about angels and Castiel’s hybrid existence that Dean had never bothered to ask. How did his wings manifest on a human body? How did he fly? But Dean did understand a few things, and one of them was red and erect and right in his face.

Dean stood. “All clean,” he managed to say.

Castiel breathed carefully out through his nose. “Yes.”

“I’ll just...get the water.” Dean angled through the shower to reach the handles on the opposite wall and Castiel shifted to make room. Their bodies brushed, hip touching hip, and Dean turned off the water. He leaned back, but not far, and dared to look into Castiel’s eyes again. Castiel’s pupils were blown wide open and as Dean stared, he licked his lip slowly.

Dean was sure it wasn’t deliberate. He was positive that Castiel didn’t have a flirting bone in his body, but even as he was aware of this, his body moved in response. Dean reached for Castiel, hands flying to wrap around his neck and cheek, drawing him in so he could taste him again. Castiel met his lips with a low groan and tilted his chin slightly. The change in angle was perfect and Dean pressed the seam of their lips together, his back arched until their hips met and Dean finally was able to rub his aching cock against Castiel’s warmth. Dean’s lips trembled open.

Castiel deepened the kiss as though he’d aced a course in it in Earth 101, slipping the tip of his tongue across the divide to slide across and inside Dean’s lip. Dean pressed forward in response with wild, ebullient desperation coursing through his body. He wanted Castiel like he had never wanted anybody in his entire life. The ball of desperate agony he’d been carrying around lit on fire at Castiel’s touch and Dean wanted to drown himself in kisses, immolate himself with desire. Castiel slid his hands around Dean’s torso and down his sides and Dean whimpered - actually whimpered - and leaned in harder.

And then Castiel’s hands were on his chest, pushing away, creating a gap between them. “Dean,” Castiel gasped through swollen lips. “Wait.”

Dean stumbled backwards as though struck. They’d shifted in the kiss so that Castiel’s wing half blocked the shower door and Dean flicked a glance at it, calculating his escape. “Cas,” he panted. “Jesus. I’m sorry, I--”

Castiel was quiet but his wing slowly, carefully extended so it blocked the entire shower doorway. Dean looked up at him in surprise. Castiel wore an odd expression on his face, half alight with passion and half filled with worry. “Dean, we should...speak about this.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean said. “That was out of line.” He crossed his arms again, feeling desperately exposed as he regained control of his breathing. He looked away from Castiel’s eyes and found a spot on the trailing tip of his wing to focus on instead. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Castiel cleared his throat. “No, I should apologize,” he said. “I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you like that.”

Dean couldn’t help the small scoffing laugh that escaped him. “Other way around, man.”

“What do you mean, Dean?”

Dean gestured loosely at the surrounding shower space, indicating Castiel’s broad wings. “You’re hurt, low power. You can’t-- And you don’t know about--” He shook his head. “You’re not human, Cas.”

In response, Castiel’s face twisted into an expression Dean regularly saw in the mirror these days. Castiel’s eyes were downcast, his mouth pulled into a tight, unhappy frown, and he said very quietly. “I know. I’m sorry.” His wing snapped down, folding away tight against his back.

Dean looked at his escape route: a narrow door, a steam obscured room, and the distraction of Sam and Annie somewhere in the bed and breakfast. It would be easy to run from this, to bottle his emotions into a palatable facsimile of calm competence while his internal scream grew increasingly shrill.

Or he could drop the wall and kiss Castiel and let the screaming shut the fuck up for just a little while. Slowly, he took a step forward and Castiel inhaled sharply as Dean drew near again. Dean raised his palm to Castiel’s face, fingertips brushing his earlobe and thumb stroking gently. Castiel leaned slightly into the touch and Dean waited until their eyes met to say, very quietly, “Hey. I don’t care if you’re not human.” He kissed Castiel once, very quickly, and moved away again.

Castiel’s inhale trembled like an earthquake and he said, as though confessing a deep sin, “I don’t care if you are.”

Dean kept up the smooth strokes and asked, “Are you okay?”

Castiel’s mouth drew up slightly. “I’m not sure.”

Dean dipped his head and huffed out a laugh. “Right.” Then, he met Castiel’s gaze again. “I kissed you.”

“I know.”

“Is that...something you want again?” Slowly, Castiel nodded, his head pressing harder into Dean’s palm as though they might melt together at any moment. “Do you want more?”

“Yes. Dean.”

“So do I.” Dean leaned in and kissed Castiel. Something wild that had been thrashing around in his chest for weeks now suddenly quieted. He stepped into Castiel’s arms and wrapped his own around him, one over the shoulder, the other around his waist. Dean let their bodies touch, skin sliding along wet skin. He kept their kiss gentle and chaste, unhurried.

And then Castiel pushed his erection into Dean, sliding it against Dean’s own hard length and moaned into his mouth. Dean broke away with a gasp and Castiel used the opportunity to slide his mouth along Dean’s jaw and take his earlobe into his mouth. He sucked at it, then nipped, and Dean shouted in surprise. Castiel’s wide hand slid from Dean’s shoulder and down his water flecked back where it settled for a moment in the small of Dean’s back. He pressed Dean to him and sucked hard at the base of his neck just above his collarbone. Dean pushed against his head with his own and Castiel allowed his chin to fall back so Dean could trail hungry kisses across his throat and down his chest.

When Castiel grabbed his ass with one firm, large hand, Dean knew they needed to move it elsewhere. “Bed,” he panted into Castiel’s shoulder. He moved one hand up to slide under the small, soft feathers at the base of Castiel’s wing and Castiel yelped. With a sharp indrawn breath, Dean drew back. “Bad?” he asked.

Castiel shook his head, eyes saucer wide. “Quite the opposite. But I agree. Bed.” Dean grinned at him and stepped clear to peel off his soaking wet boxers, dropping them on the floor of the shower. He opened the shower door and leaned out, snagging a towel from the rack on the wall. Dean turned to hand it to Castiel. “Thank you,” Castiel said, his wings spreading to fill the shower. He grinned, closed his eyes, and his feathers seemed to rise up from the sleek surface of his wings.

“Wait! Don’t--” Dean said, but it was too late. Moments later he was drenched from the spray of water Castiel rustled from his wings. He lifted the towel up, now half soaked, and tossed it up to hang over the side of the shower enclosure. He leaned in and swiped the towel across his face and then looked at Castiel with one raised brow.

Castiel grimaced back at him. “Sorry?” he said tentatively, looking so bedraggled and alarmed that Dean had to relent and laugh.

“You’re a menace,” he said gently, then stepped onto the now wet bath mat and fished out another towel. He handed it to Castiel, then grabbed another of the oversized fluffy towels for himself. His time in the shower cleaning Castiel had been enough to wash to worst of the blood from his hair and skin but Dean still grimaced when he saw the light pink stain on the towel when he dried his hair. He felt a gentle touch at the nape of his neck and turned to see Castiel frowning.

“I wish I could heal you right now.”

“This? This is nothing, Cas. Don’t worry about it.” He dropped his towel on the rack and reached out a hand to Castiel. “I’d rather you use your energy for other things.”

Castiel smiled at his feet, looking incredibly young without his customary layers of clothing and war-hardened expression, and Dean felt himself slip even farther into… Into whatever this was. His heart ached when Castiel took his hand and followed him out of the shower. Dean led him to the bedroom.

The room felt shockingly cool compared to the wet heat of the steam filled bathroom, but Castiel’s hand was hot in his own. Dean turned to Castiel, remembering his terror in the bar and brothel, and resolved to take it slow. He was the experienced one here. He could slow it down and make it good. He’d take care of Castiel and that would be enough.

Dean pulled Castiel to the bed, grinning at his dazed expression, then took hold of Castiel’s shoulders, turning him so that his back faced the mattress. “Your wings okay if you lie down?” Dean asked and Castiel nodded slowly, ruffling his feathers up. “Okay, here, I’ll help you up.” Dean climbed onto the bed and extended his hand, helping Castiel to stand on the soft mattress. They sunk into it together, the hollow their feet made drawing their bodies together. Dean gripped Castiel’s hips loosely then leaned in for a soft kiss. He slowly slipped his tongue into Castiel’s mouth, tangling it along his teeth. Castiel gasped and returned the kiss with enthusiasm. Soon they were right where they had left off in the shower, rolling their bodies together and panting against each other.

“Lie down,” Dean said after several minutes, his body bowed so he could lick at Castiel’s nipple. Castiel, to his gratification, scrambled to comply and he soon lay across the white comforter. His wings splayed out gracefully to either side and his feathers curved slightly upwards, making Dean feel like they were curled in a delicate nest together. He straddled one of Castiel’s legs and grinned “I’m gonna make you feel so good,” he promised, then bent down. Castiel seemed to have astonishingly sensitive nipples and he gasped and moaned as Dean licked and sucked and nibbled. Dean slid his hand over Castiel’s hot length and groaned at the feeling of his cock warm and heavy in his hand. He ran his thumb over the tip and twisted his hand. Castiel jumped under the touch.

“Dean!” he cried, instinctively thrusting up into Dean’s hand. “Dean, I want--” He cried out again as Dean bit gently at the skin below his ribs and sucked hard. “I want you.”

“Shhh, I know.” Dean said, continuing to slide his hand along Castiel’s cock, which was already streaking his palm with precome.

“No, I--” Castiel wound his fingers in Dean’s short hair and pulled up hard, forcing Dean to look at him. “I want you on me. In me. I want to be in you.”

Dean’s cock jumped at the words and he rubbed a hand along his own length and seriously contemplated Castiel's words. He didn’t have any lube, damn and salt the earth, but he could roll with the first plan. A basket of small toiletries sat on the bedside table, among them a small bottle of lotion. He leaned across the bed and grabbed the lotion, breaking the seal and wrinkling his nose at the mouth of the container as he opened the lid. He had expected something intensely scented but was pleased to find that it only smelled very faintly of vanilla. He palmed the open bottle. “Okay,” he said, shifting his hips so he could draw one leg over Castiel.

Straddling Castiel was easier. He tucked his feet close to Castiel’s well muscled thighs and dipped down to capture his lips. Castiel pushed his tongue into his mouth and for a few minutes, Dean forgot everything but the hot slide of tongue and teeth. And then Castiel shifted beneath Dean and he was reminded very quickly what awaited him. He rolled his hips into Castiel, his cock brushing along his firm abdomen. Dean settled back for a moment and upended the lotion in his palm, then brought it down between them and groaned at the tighter pleasure.

Castiel threw his head back, sinews standing out along his body and he thrust against Dean, eyes fluttering shut. Dean grinned at the sight and fucked into his hand, balanced on his other elbow. His other hand was pressed on the mattress near Castiel’s arm and he inched his fingers over to the feathers splayed across the comforter. He pushed his fingers into the feathers of Castiel’s wing and they closed silky cool around his hand.

Just as before, Castiel cried out at the touch to his wings and Dean stroked his fingertips along the warm skin at the base of the feathers and began to fuck Castiel in earnest. The world narrowed to the writhing angel on the bed, the heat in his hand, and the fire burning every thought in Dean's head to ash.

When Castiel came it was with a desperate moan, so low and guttural that it went straight to Dean’s dick and he followed not long after, come spilling over his fingers. He dropped his forehead to Castiel’s shoulder, burying his face in soft skin and feathers.

Slowly, Dean’s breath returned to him. He uncurled his fingers between their bodies, his hand a sticky mess and thought that he should get up and get a towel to clean themselves. He was loathe to do so, however. Castiel was warm and as they breathed together, he brought his fingers up to run through Dean’s hair. It was quiet and soothing and Dean wanted to stay in this bubble for as long as possible. He pressed a kiss into Castiel’s collarbone.

“That was wonderful,” Castiel whispered. “Truly, I-- I had no idea.”

Dean pulled back, balancing on his elbow. He affected a haughty expression but found he couldn’t sustain it for long. “Glad you liked it,” he said quietly.

“Did you?”

“Yeah.” Dean dropped one more kiss on Castiel’s lips and then stayed there for a moment, fingers brushing through the fine feathers, soft as silk. And then he pushed himself away, trailing his hand down Castiel’s wing as he did so. “Be right back, okay?” He eased off of the bed and headed for the bathroom where he cleaned himself up, then grabbed a washcloth, wet it, and brought it back to the bed. He settled on the edge of the mattress and began to wipe it carefully across Castiel’s skin.

Castiel looked up at him with a soft look in his eyes. “Thank you.”

Dean felt himself flush. “No problem, man. How-- How are you doing? Are you okay? With...everything?”

“I’m good.” The way Castiel said that, slowly and without breaking eye contact, brought a new wave of peace to Dean.

“You still tired?” Dean asked. Castiel nodded and held out his hand to Dean, who took it and found himself pulled into his embrace, his head pillowed on Castiel’s wing. Dean looked up at Castiel, his cheek sliding against the smooth feathers, and asked, “Does this hurt you?”

Castiel wrapped his arms around Dean and turned slightly so he could slide one leg between Dean’s calves. “No, it’s good.” His lips struggled and failed to contain a yawn.

Dean snaked one arm around Castiel’s waist. “Get some sleep. I’ll be here.”

They lay wrapped together in the thickening evening and slept at last.

* * *

Dean woke up and blinked in confusion. The room was dark; the drawn curtains only revealed fans of feeble streetlight from their curling edges. He’d woken feeling strange and unsettled like he’d shifted worlds again. There was a warm body curled up against his own. He lay there for a moment, barely daring to breathe as he remembered everything that had occurred. Castiel’s breathing was slow and reassuringly steady and it took Dean another whole minute to realize the other change. Castiel’s wings were gone.

He lifted his head, trying to angle it so he could make out the time on the clock. They’d fallen asleep so early, it must be just a little after midnight. He never could sleep more than four or five hours these days but right now he felt oddly rested and almost relaxed.

Castiel’s breathing changed. “Dean?” His voice rumbled through the dark room.

“Your wings are gone,” Dean said, stupidly.

“My, ah, mojo is returning,” Castiel said and Dean grinned into his shoulder, relief washing over him like a cold sweat.

“Good.”

“Dean.” Castiel brought his hand up to Dean’s back and brushed his palm along his skin.

“Cas.” Dean returned, when Castiel didn’t continue with his thought.

“Did-- Did you like them?”

“What? Your wings? Yeah, I did.”

“Truly? I know they are...unusual. Even for angels, it’s unheard of to be manifest. I didn’t--”

Dean pushed himself up a little bit. In the dim light of the room he could just barely make out the grim set of Castiel’s mouth and he leaned forward and dropped a quick kiss. “They’re incredible. I like your wings.” He traced along Castiel’s ribs and said, “I like you. However I can get you. Whatever form or--”

Castiel interrupted him with a deep kiss, plunging his tongue confidently into Dean’s mouth and Dean was just starting to think about rolling over on top of him again when Castiel pulled back enough to whisper, “I like you too.”

“Even with the whole ‘mojo back’ thing? I thought angels were supposed to, I dunno, be....”

“Emotionless? Even so.” Castiel sighed. “I’ve tried to be that angel but...perhaps it isn’t in me. This is all very new to me.” He hummed thoughtfully. “But perhaps the labels I’ve grown accustomed to are all wrong.”

Dean froze at the words, flashing back to another night with a sorrowful, bitter, high Castiel laughing in his face. _I thought we'd gotten over trying to label me._ Just a day later he was dead.

Castiel must have picked up on something - a hitched breath, stiffened muscles, maybe even ripples in his soul. He asked, “Dean, are you alright?”

Dean sighed and then pushed himself away and upright. He could feel Castiel's eyes on him in the dark and he leaned over the bed and switched on the lamp on the bedside table. Rose gold light illuminated the room and gilded Castiel’s kiss bitten lips and worried eyes. “There’s something I gotta tell you. You remember Zachariah? That ‘one possible future’?” Castiel nodded. “I told you a little bit about it. About Sam and Lucifer.” He looked down at his hands. “I didn’t tell you about me.”

Castiel listened while Dean told him of the events of Camp Chitaqua, the ruined angel he found there, and the broken man spearheading everyone’s ruin. “Dean,” Castiel said when Dean’s words ran out. “When I rebelled against Heaven. Chose you. Chose humanity. I didn’t do it because you told me to. You didn’t make me…” He gulped. “Lose my grace. Or turn to substances. Or give my life to serve the greater good. Those were my choices and mine alone. You can’t take that from me, and you can’t lay it on your own shoulders. The moment I helped you leave that safe room I stopped following orders and started following my conscience. Following my...heart.” He laid gentle fingers on Dean’s chin and forced him to look into his eyes. Castiel smiled a soft smile, soulful eyes turned up at him earnestly. “You like to pin the decisions of others on yourself. I understand. Perhaps more than anyone... But the decisions I make now or in the future? Those are my decisions and mine alone. If I go to my death in the darkest of futures, it will be _my_ decision. And it will have been after knowing your exultant soul.” Dean couldn’t hold Castiel’s gaze anymore. He tried to turn away but Castiel’s fingers were firm and his tone hardened. “If anything that was a warning.”

The delicate tendril of joy that had tried to kindle to life during Castiel’s speech died. Dean nodded, numbly.

Castiel sighed and rolled his eyes a little. “Dean,” he said sternly. “It was a warning to me to not give into my despair. If the changes you say are coming are true, I will need that reminder.” His voice dropped low and he shifted to stare at Dean’s chest instead of meeting his eyes. “You said you needed me. In the exhibit hall, that is.”

Dean felt his face heat up once again. “You heard that?” He asked. “Thought you were sleeping the sleep of the almost dead.”

“Distantly,” Castiel said. “Like a dream. Dean, I-- I need you too.”

Dean stared at Castiel who continued to avoid his gaze. He looked suddenly sorrowful. Uncertain. Dean wanted to bring back the bliss he’d seen earlier that night so he took a deep breath and curved his palm around Castiel’s cheek, urging him to look into his eyes. “I don’t know what this is,” he said honestly. “You fill me up, Cas. I just… I don’t want to hurt you.”

Castiel nodded and then said gently, enunciating every word, “Okay, then. This is my choice.” He slid his arm around Dean and pulled him close.

Dean felt his lip tremble. “Okay.” He brought his mouth to cover Castiel’s and lingered on his lips for a long time, sharing breath. When he finally pulled away he said, “I still don’t know what this is. Or what’s coming up. It’s gonna be bad, Cas.”

“I know.” Castiel gently stroked Dean’s shoulder. “I don’t know what to expect either. But I know I want to weather it at your side, come what may.”

Dean shook his head. “Fuckin’ cheesy, man,” he mumbled and his mouth bloomed into a grin at Castiel’s answering scowl. “I want you here too. With me.”

“We’ll weather it together,” Castiel said. “Okay?”

Dean slid his hand around Castiel’s back, caressing where the wings had been just hours before. If the lesson he’d learned from Zachariah’s alternate world was to put faith in his relationships, then he would try to build that faith on the foundation of Castiel’s gentle smile and blazing touch. “Okay,” he said. “Together.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/whichstiel) and [Tumblr](http://whichstiel.tumblr.com/) @ whichstiel. You may also like the Supernatural recap and gif blog I co-write/curate, [Shirtless Sammy](https://shirtlesssammy.tumblr.com/).
> 
> If you haven't already, you'd butter remember to head over to [cacodaemonia's tumblr](http://cacodaemonia.tumblr.com/post/165064875045/these-are-illustrations-for-whichstiel-s-deancas) and reblog her amazing art! It's soooo beautiful.


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